tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182Fri, 27 Mar 2015 08:58:28 +0000Paristravelcultural differencesSorbonnerunningfoodcookingtouristlocal flavorstudentParis failbakingcupcakesexpatsrestaurantsParis winmarathonsummerFranceAmerican bakingexercisefriendsmarketCanaleducationhometour guideEnglish classcharitysurprisesvacationChristmasNew YorkSpringcrazy ideasculture shockeatingholidaysice creampastrytourismbikebudgetjournalismlanguageneighborsnostalgiaracesmilestransportationtrendsCupcake Camp Parischocolatecity lifefast foodfunny signsgreen-mindedlifesafetystreet foodworkingwritingFrenchItalyMarathon du Médocacademiaacceptingartbloggingcampaignschangeencountersflowersfoolgoalshabitshome applianceslovemonumentrainrealizationsupermarketsterrorismtraditionwineAudrey HepburnBostonFunny FaceJogg.inSan Franciscoautumnbookscakescatsdiscountsdoctorateembracingfalse advertisingfamilyfinisherfreedomhappyhistoryjourneykitchenlunchmetromuseumsnamesoccasionspetsrevisitingsocial mediastereotypesstreetstelecommunicationswinterzoo14 JuilletAmsterdamBastille DayBrusselsBudapestCamargueChantillyCharlieChicagoFlorenceGelatoLyonMarseilleMexicanMyOrleansProvinsPère LachaiseRATPRPPReebokRomeRun in LyonSpartan RaceThansgivingThe Local WayVeniceadultapocalypseartisanauditory enemybirthblind itembobosbouncerbribingbutchercandlescardboardchateaucitizenshipclichecoffeecoldcolorcommunicationscommunitycookbookcookiescustomer servicedecorationsdentistdogsentrepreneurseventsfireworksfirst world problemsfroyofruitgardeninggaygendergiveawaygovernmentguest posthalf marathonhandicapablehomemadeiAppinnovationinternetintroductionskrumpla rentréemailmanifestationmedalsmeetingsmusicnightlifenumbersnutritionodeovenpaparazzipaperworkparkspas possiblepatriotismperspectivepizzapostepotprofessionalprofiterolespumpkinpuppiesquestionnaireritualsadsmellssnowsolidaritysouthspell checkstreakingstudystyletackytechnologytelecommunications. internettelemarketersthe grand returnthe grand return p2tipstragedyvideovoyagewalkingweddingswildlifeyaksWhere is Bryan?Stories from an American studying at the Sorbonne in Paris who runs marathons, rides bikes, travels, and writes for various publications. http://www.bryanpirolli.com/noreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)Blogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-167507198128525707Fri, 27 Mar 2015 08:55:00 +00002015-03-27T09:58:28.239+01:00foodParispastryprofiterolestrendsProfiterole Chérie and the Very Cream-Filled Day<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlWaQohRXpw/VRUZN9SuxfI/AAAAAAAADPY/5P_qVavoYWg/s1600/profiterole.cherie.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="pastry sweets profiteroles" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlWaQohRXpw/VRUZN9SuxfI/AAAAAAAADPY/5P_qVavoYWg/s1600/profiterole.cherie.2.JPG" height="426" title="Profiterole Chérie Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Caramel. Cream. That's all you need to know.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Macarons, éclairs, cream puffs, madeleines – there’s no shortage of shops dishing out one product, and doing it well. I love an éclair from <a href="http://leclairdegenie.com/" target="_blank">Eclair de Génie</a> or a cream puff from <a href="http://popelini.com/" target="_blank">Popelini</a>, but when I stumbled upon <a href="http://www.profiterolecherie.fr/" target="_blank">Profiterole Chérie</a>, I was intrigued.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The last time, and maybe first time, I had a profiterole in France was at the iconic Chez Georges restaurant, where Julia Child used to dine. Choux pastry filled with ice cream and covered in chocolate – how can you go wrong?</div><br /><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">President of the MOF distinction for pastry, <a href="http://philippe-urraca.fr/la-biographie-de-philippe-urraca/" target="_blank">Philippe Urraca</a>, decided to take profiteroles to the next level. With ten varieties including those filled with ice cream, pastry cream, lemon curd, and one rifting off the Paris-Brest, he has reinvented the profiterole. Having chosen the pastry based on his belief that it was “neglected” in France, he literally <a href="http://www.amazon.fr/Un-chef-p%C3%A2tissier-dans-cuisine-profiteroles/dp/2263065954" target="_blank">wrote the book about them </a>before opening his shop in Paris this year.</div><br /><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_QERgz520wo/VRUZNjf9JyI/AAAAAAAADPU/XBJ5HnJUJmA/s1600/profiterole.cherie.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="pastry sweets profiterole" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_QERgz520wo/VRUZNjf9JyI/AAAAAAAADPU/XBJ5HnJUJmA/s1600/profiterole.cherie.1.JPG" height="426" title="Profiterole Chérie Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Made to order and super fresh.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Surrounded by soft pink décor, his four smiling pastry chefs whip up your pastry as you order it, with fresh choux pastry coming out of the oven about every 45 minutes. Urraca, from the southwest of France (he’s got the accent!) said that he wants to reassure his customers by making the profiteroles in the open-air kitchen. He was inspired by Joel Robuchon’s restaurants that do much the same with their dishes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At 6 euros a piece, they aren’t a steal, but they are a worthwhile experience. Be sure to ask about the variety of the moment, or else go for a Chérie-Vanille or Paris-Brest, two of the best-sellers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Take them away in boxes outfitted with dry ice to keep them chilled, or enjoy them in his cozy shop with a coffee or tea. They look gorgeous, until you pour the sauce on top of them and start digging in, at which point it’s all about the flavors and creamy decadence anyway. Bon appétit!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><i><a href="http://www.profiterolecherie.fr/" target="_blank">Profiterole Chérie</a> // 17 rue Debelleyme 75003 // 6 euros for a profiterole to stay or to go</i></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/03/profiterole-cherie-paris.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-7606614450928769518Fri, 20 Mar 2015 09:04:00 +00002015-03-20T21:49:23.872+01:00changeflowershappyParisSpringA Spring Awakening in Paris<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gu5TVAfLDFM/VQvb3VNEg3I/AAAAAAAADOc/IXwj80MPI_Y/s1600/spring.paris.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Marche d'Aligre florist" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gu5TVAfLDFM/VQvb3VNEg3I/AAAAAAAADOc/IXwj80MPI_Y/s1600/spring.paris.1.JPG" height="426" title="Paris spring flowers" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parisian florists do their best work in the spring...</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Goodbye dark grey velvet skies and 4PM sunsets and hello spring. Every March 20th we celebrate as if it were the first spring we ever encountered. The sins of winter are forgiven and Paris will soon be at its best. We'll all shake off the sleepiness of the winter and step outside and enjoy the prospects of warm temperatures and&nbsp;<i>some&nbsp;</i>sun, if the smog and clouds ever lift (thick enough to hide today's partial solar eclipse. Way to go, Paris)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Some of us are sitting inside, hammering away at a keyboard and combing through books trying to finish a doctoral thesis. Others, I imagine, aren't. Hence the unimaginative post. But it's curious to think of Paris coming out of hibernation and the different reasons that various Parisians will celebrate...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fCsNg6XB3dg" target="_blank">Play this in the background</a> while reading...<br /><a name='more'></a><b><br /></b></div><div><b>PICNICKERS</b>: The most grateful are the Parisian picnickers who can begin preparing their cheese and charcuterie spreads with baguettes and wine. It won’t be long until the banks of the Seine and Canal are writhing with activity. <br /><br /><b>RUNNERS</b>: As the Paris Marathon creeps up, the final days of training can be spent in shorts – no more thermals, hats, or gloves. And despite the pollution, breathing gets easier as the air warms. Suddenly a 20 mile Sunday run doesn't seem as daunting (<i>he says now</i>...).<br /><br /><b>CHOCOLATIERS</b>: Easter is prime time to sell boatloads of chocolate, thanks to Easter. Look for dark, milk, and white varieties in the shapes of hens, fish, bunnies, and assorted seafood.<br /><br /><b>TOUR GUIDES</b>: Those of us who do tours are more than happy to spend spring afternoons touring around, showing tourists the best of Paris. It’s a far cry from dragging frozen families through the streets and huddling in a café to thaw in January. <br /><br /><b>STUDENTS</b>: Spring means the end of the semester. For some at the university, May marks the end of the year, so it’s a downhill ride from March 20th – unless you factor in exams, term papers, or maybe a doctoral thesis for some of us…<br /><div><br />&nbsp; <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-60aXigjT1uU/VQvb3yUZWRI/AAAAAAAADOg/pr9rK9PUN_w/s1600/spring.paris.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Promenade Plantee Paris" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-60aXigjT1uU/VQvb3yUZWRI/AAAAAAAADOg/pr9rK9PUN_w/s1600/spring.paris.2.JPG" height="426" title="Paris spring flowers" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowers along the Promenade Plantée&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b style="font-weight: bold;">METRO COMMUTERS</b>: The metro becomes a less hostile place in the spring as the layers shed and the smells fade (a bit). With less dodging from cold to hot, commuters sweat less in the metro under all of those layers (is my theory) and thus smell less pungent. Also more people are inclined to walk, which means less congestion (though more tourists make up for that).&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>MARKET VENDORS</b>: The fresh produce vendors at the local markets are no longer shivering waiting for their clients. On top of that, they have better produce to sell as strawberries, cherries, apricots, and the other warm weather produce starts to trickle into their stalls.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>CYCLISTS</b>: Finally we can bike the streets of Paris without freezing off our fingers and sweating underneath multiple layers of jackets and scarves. Time to dust off the red racer and hit the road again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>GOAT CHEESE MAKERS</b>: Because duh, the best goat cheeses start to come out in the spring.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>EVERYONE ELSE</b>: It’s not winter any more. What more do you need?</div></div></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/03/a-spring-awakening-in-paris.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-1370703470139741177Mon, 09 Mar 2015 10:00:00 +00002015-03-10T09:48:46.405+01:00academiaeducationParisSorbonnestudentstudyStudying at the Sorbonne: 5 Myths to Forget<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q91iQgWRGOE/VPrwsG9j3fI/AAAAAAAADMg/l2rW4M_7BHQ/s1600/sorbonne.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Study at La Sorbonne" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q91iQgWRGOE/VPrwsG9j3fI/AAAAAAAADMg/l2rW4M_7BHQ/s1600/sorbonne.2.JPG" height="425" title="Sorbonne Paris" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div>I’ve had a lot of emails recently from potential students all over the world trying to apply to the Sorbonne. It’s been really interesting seeing how everyone interprets the process and the problems faced by all of us. It’s not easy.<br /><br />But I wanted to put a few things out there, since many of the same issues keep coming up over and over again. Here are just five of the “myths” that I’ve noticed running around about the “Sorbonne” that need some clarification:<br /><br /><b>1. “The Sorbonne” is the name of a university in Paris:</b> Wrong. You cannot attend “The Sorbonne” so to speak. This is a colloquial term that is often misunderstood and misused. It refers to the general university system in Paris, but let's be clear.<br /><div><a name='more'></a></div><div><br /></div><div>You can attend the “University of Paris,” which is divided into many different campuses, each with a different name. The name game gets fuzzy because each campus has a number – University of Paris 3, University of Paris 7 – but also a name. Number 3 is “<i>La Sorbonne Nouvelle</i>,” number 7 is “<i>Diderot</i>.”<br /><br />If you want to go to a school with the word “Sorbonne” in the title, look to 1, 2, 3: <i>Sorbonne-Panthéon, Sorbonne Panthéon-Assas, Sorbonne Nouvelle</i>, respectively. But there is no generic school called “Sorbonne.”<br /><br />What’s more, each campus has specific programs, so you can’t just say, “I want to go to a school with Sorbonne in the name and study biology.” You have to find which campus (<a href="http://www.bryanpirolli.com/p/studying-at-sorbonne.html" target="_blank">1 through 13</a>) offers your program, and often more than one will.<br /><br /><b>2. It’s a gorgeous, old building:</b> Lies. Some, like the original building shown in my picture, are quite pretty. Many others, like my school, Paris 3, are old 1970s boxes with windows that don’t open and charmless hallways. But remember it’s cheap!<br /><br />Fortunately the rest of Paris is pretty good-looking, so don’t let a bit of bad architecture scare you away.<br /><br /><b>3. It’s the best education possible in France:</b> French students who attend <i>les grandes écoles</i>, the “Ivy League” of France, would probably laugh at this statement. On paper, the University of Paris is fine, but in practice, you’ll probably get a much more intensive and thorough education at a school like <i>ENS </i>or <i>Sciences Po,</i> but you have to be accepted, and that’s no easy task. Internationally, however, having “Sorbonne” in the name of your school is not a bad thing at all, so try to go for universities 1, 2, or 3 if possible.<br /><br /><b>4. It’s extremely selective:</b> Nah, not really. It’s a public school, open to everyone. You need to fill out your paperwork correctly and follow the rules, but as long as there is space in the program you are applying for, you shouldn’t worry about having the best grades. They don’t really look at things like an application essay or extracurricular activities like they would at an American school.<br /><br /><b>5. I can just apply and go, right?</b> Well, not exactly. As much as the school isn’t extremely selective, you do need to fit a certain profile. You can’t apply to a literature program if you have previous studies in business, for example.<br /><div><br /></div><div>The <i>licence </i>or undergrad level isn’t quite as strict for international students, but the <i>masters </i>level requires that you justify why you chose a certain program. I had a journalism bachelor’s degree, so a communication masters wasn’t a stretch. But if I went for a chemistry masters, the school would have rejected me. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Hope that makes things a bit clearer for you prospective students. Feel free to comment or email me if you have more questions!</div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/03/studying-at-sorbonne-5-myths-to-forget.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-3480258670831750897Fri, 27 Feb 2015 15:11:00 +00002015-03-09T22:38:33.651+01:00cultural differencesloveneighborsPariswildlifeRunning A Fowl at Square du Temple<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hq9ibvMVmns/VPCGOpbaR8I/AAAAAAAADKY/qZkKDqqpKLI/s1600/rooster.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Paris wildlife" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hq9ibvMVmns/VPCGOpbaR8I/AAAAAAAADKY/qZkKDqqpKLI/s1600/rooster.1.JPG" height="426" title="Rooster in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Show off...</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div>Ever since last year’s World Cup, Paris has had a very odd couple living in one of its parks. The <a href="http://www.timeout.com/paris/en/things-to-do/attractions/square-du-temple" target="_blank">Square du Temple</a>, in the upper Marais, just south of Place de la République, is green space dedicated to playing children, summertime sunbathers, and bench lovers. Man I love a good bench.<br /><br />But after the World Cup, allegedly, a local who had purchased a rooster, France’s team mascot, let the bird loose in park. Later, feeling sorry for the lonesome fowl, someone bought him a hen, according to an old Frenchman who explained this to me a few months ago while I was staring at the birds. <br /><a name='more'></a>Various combinations of hens and roosters have inhabited the park (<a href="http://americablog.com/2014/08/roosters-square-du-temple.html" target="_blank">according to other accounts</a>). At one point, the hen and rooster pair had even adopted what seemed to be a little duckling. There’s nothing wrong with mixed-species families, right?<br /><br />Sadly, while walking through the park today, I spotted two park workers with boxes and a dead hen with black plumage on the bench. Apparently the winter had not been so kind to her. The rooster, however, the only one that I could spot still in the park, was still wandering around, cockadoodling (cocorico in French…), and pecking at various bits of food thrown by park goers. He didn’t seem too phased. He may have been in shock still.<br /><div><br /><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U9XRYRllCZk/VPCGXPBXhuI/AAAAAAAADK0/ZFiayANY9c0/s1600/rooster.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Paris wildlife" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U9XRYRllCZk/VPCGXPBXhuI/AAAAAAAADK0/ZFiayANY9c0/s1600/rooster.5.JPG" height="426" title="Rooster in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A good looking bird...</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Whether or not he’ll be alone this spring or not remains unclear. This is Paris, a city known for romance, and he’s a good-looking bird, so I don’t think he’ll have too much trouble finding love. Hopefully he’ll get a new hen friend to lay some eggs and usher the spring in with a new family. <br /><br />Or maybe he’ll end up on someone’s dining room table. It’s a coin toss at this point.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xdzjWvDw8ec/VPCGPfv9jrI/AAAAAAAADKg/yJ5UNjfyoiI/s1600/rooster.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="Paris parks" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xdzjWvDw8ec/VPCGPfv9jrI/AAAAAAAADKg/yJ5UNjfyoiI/s1600/rooster.3.JPG" height="426" title="Square du Temple in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rooster's wonderland...</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Either way, I’ll keep an eye on him and let you know how he’s doing.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9unJ4dRx92M/VPCGSehxv2I/AAAAAAAADKs/meydS2ALV9U/s1600/rooster.4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Paris wildlife" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9unJ4dRx92M/VPCGSehxv2I/AAAAAAAADKs/meydS2ALV9U/s1600/rooster.4.JPG" height="426" title="Rooster in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Badass.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-U9XRYRllCZk/VPCGXPBXhuI/AAAAAAAADK0/ZFiayANY9c0/s1600/rooster.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div></div></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/02/running-fowl-at-square-du-temple.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-3239904574317672968Wed, 25 Feb 2015 10:18:00 +00002015-02-25T11:19:01.608+01:00BudapestbudgetsurprisestouristtravelBudapest: The Paris of the East <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pbuaX3N5STw/VO2ZwlieBEI/AAAAAAAADJA/x3i5AM6hdww/s1600/budapest.4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pbuaX3N5STw/VO2ZwlieBEI/AAAAAAAADJA/x3i5AM6hdww/s1600/budapest.4.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parliament from across the Danube...</td></tr></tbody></table><div>The so-called Paris of the East, the Hungarian capital made for a wonderful February escape. Though temperatures were no warmer than in Paris, sunshine and cheap prices (1 euro = 305 <b>forints</b>) more than made up for the cold.</div><br />We spent three nights wandering, eating, caffeinating, and generally soaking up the vibe of this city that I hardly knew at all. It’s in eastern Europe, so generally themes of destruction during World War 2, communism, and populist uprisings were in there somewhere. I also had the keywords "thermal baths" and "paprika" in mind, but other than a few quick Google searches, I let fate guide us (along with the recommendations of a few reliable friends).<br /><br />The result? An experience well-beyond my expectations and hardly a dent in my Parisian wallet.<br /><a name='more'></a><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KNI_QxC1-zY/VO2Z9si_pCI/AAAAAAAADJ4/PoVIRm40MRc/s1600/budapest.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KNI_QxC1-zY/VO2Z9si_pCI/AAAAAAAADJ4/PoVIRm40MRc/s1600/budapest.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Great Market Hall, because you can never have enough paprika...</td></tr></tbody></table><div>Day 1 :&nbsp;</div><div><br />After a bit of wandering, we stumbled upon the <b>Great Market Hall</b>. Food stalls serving up traditional Hungarian specialties hit the spot. Produce, meat, fish, and paprika vendors peddled their wares under a giant 19th century glass and iron canopy. It’s touristy, but tasty and convenient.<br /><br />We then had a piece of <b>flodni</b>, a walnut and apple cake, at <b>Café Noe</b>, supposedly one of the best in the city. Worth it for sure.<br /><br />Wandering back towards the opera district, we stopped in the <b>Alexandra Bookstore</b>, akin to Barnes and Noble, but with a gorgeous gilded and Renaissance-style coffee house on the upper floor. The menu is a bit pricier than most coffee houses (around 4 euros for a white chocolate or banana hot chocolate), but you get top-notch service and a piano player. Classy.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ATGuYqeSRBY/VO2ZyGx3rpI/AAAAAAAADJI/1j6PZia8Ys4/s1600/budapest.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ATGuYqeSRBY/VO2ZyGx3rpI/AAAAAAAADJI/1j6PZia8Ys4/s1600/budapest.1.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee shop inside the Alexandra Bookstore</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div>I wanted to eat at least one good meal, since others had said the food was not good unless you went Michelin star. We did not find this to be the case at all, but I reserved a table at a quirky little place set up by some journalists, called <b>Firkász</b>. For about 30 euros a person, we ate (and drank) like kings. It was definitely an excessive price for Budapest, but considering that would have been the price for some steak, fries, and wine in certain parts of Paris, we didn’t feel scammed. The piano player (they love them!) set a really nice atmosphere.</div><div><br />At night we stopped into one of the city’s <b>ruin pubs</b>. The first one I tried was called <b>Instant</b>. Essentially abandoned apartment blocks, these repurposed bars are the it scene in the city, and with cheap bear, art installations, and a generally amiable crowd, it was the perfect way to cap off a night</div><div>.<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tct6Ha5tCAM/VO2Z6S0DOII/AAAAAAAADJo/x1VRzssLXz4/s1600/budapest.7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tct6Ha5tCAM/VO2Z6S0DOII/AAAAAAAADJo/x1VRzssLXz4/s1600/budapest.7.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Look out!"</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: center;">Day 2 :</span></div><div><br />We wandered more in the morning, through the old Jewish district and down to the famous <b>Buddha Hotel</b>. Next door is an old building with a gorgeous glass gallery, akin to the one in Milan but smaller, that is being renovated by the Buddha to become a new hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F4IT4Dy0p5s/VO2ZyTk7Z-I/AAAAAAAADJM/O4M0aI9i1C4/s1600/budapest.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-F4IT4Dy0p5s/VO2ZyTk7Z-I/AAAAAAAADJM/O4M0aI9i1C4/s1600/budapest.2.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A future hotel lobby.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />We headed to the <b>City Park</b> for the city’s famous thermal spas. We chose to go to one of the most popular, and Europe’s largest, <b>Scéchenyi Thermal Bath</b>, in the heart of the park. If you’re hungry, grab a langos (a euro or two) at one of the little huts just outside – fried dough topped with garlic, cheese, ham, or something sweet. It’s divine, cheap, and utterly inappropriate. Then head inside, rent a locker, get into your swimsuit, and prepare to relax.</div><div><br />The spa was filled with tourists and locals, but there was always a spot to sit. Two hot pools outside were the perfect way to start, sunning in the middle of February – Paris has a lot to learn. Inside, various steam rooms, saunas, and medicinal pools surrounded by Neo-Baroque architecture – in short, it’s gorgeous.</div><div><br /></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-891_VY750RQ/VO2Z8OgUfNI/AAAAAAAADJw/w3xUR_J-cTk/s1600/budapest.8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-891_VY750RQ/VO2Z8OgUfNI/AAAAAAAADJw/w3xUR_J-cTk/s1600/budapest.8.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my favorite little streets.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Afterwards, we took continental Europe’s oldest metro lines back to the center of town for coffee at one of the oldest cafés in the world, <b>Gerbeaud</b>. It smacked a little bit of Ladurée, so we didn’t stay too long, but the coffee was good!</div><div><br />Then dinner at a tiny little place that served goulash and chicken paprikash with starters and wine for about 8 euros. I might save this one for myself.<br /><br />At night we walked the river, taking in the <b>Parliament </b>building while illuminated by crossing the <b>Chain Bridge</b>, the city’s first permanent bridge. We tried to check out the local gay scene, unsuccessfully, before meeting up with some people at <b>Szimpla Kert</b>, my favorite ruin pub of the two.</div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P-ui44kRlcA/VO2Z3m7Z69I/AAAAAAAADJg/MhWnrRA_PlU/s1600/budapest.6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-P-ui44kRlcA/VO2Z3m7Z69I/AAAAAAAADJg/MhWnrRA_PlU/s1600/budapest.6.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teddy came along to see the Chain Bridge.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div>Day 3</div><div><br />We spent the morning hunting for the famous chimney cakes, <b>kürtőskalács</b>, that are much more prevalent during Christmas time. Basically a yeasty dough roasted and rolled in cinnamon or chocolate, it’s divine, if you can find it. We headed towards the river to <b>Molnar’s</b>, a bakery that specializes in the cakes all year long.<br /><br />We took it across to Buda (most of the time we stayed in Pest, where the action is) and found an escalator and elevator up the hill to the <b>Buda Castle</b> for some stellar views of the city. <br /><br />We stopped in for coffee and cake at at the tiny but adorable Ruswurm. We took a peek from <b>Fisherman’s Bastion</b>, the turrets and church overlooking the city, and headed down across the bridge and back to the metro. <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-17OAx_-Cw6o/VO2Z1I2mEfI/AAAAAAAADJY/WfYoxcUsyYg/s1600/budapest.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-17OAx_-Cw6o/VO2Z1I2mEfI/AAAAAAAADJY/WfYoxcUsyYg/s1600/budapest.5.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chimney cake anyone?</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br />A quick train and bus ride to the airport, and we were out of there, our tummies (and wallets) very full…<br /><br /></div><div><b>GO </b>: AirFrance, around 130 euros round trip from CDG to BUD. Cheaper flights available on RyanAir, but it's worth the extra few euros to leave from CDG.<br /><br /><b>STAY </b>: Hotels are cheap, but we stayed centrally in a hotel-apartment situation, Town Hall Apartments, which was very convenient and had a welcome desk with very friendly locals.<br /><br /><b>EAT</b> : coffee and cakes in at least one historic coffee house, langos (fried dough topped with whatever you want), stuffed cabbage, goulash, anything with paprika, chimney cakes rolled in cinnamon, apple and walnut cake, cheesy pretzels or sticks or basically anything from the bakery.<br /><br /><b>SEE </b>: The spas (about 15 euros for entry and locker), otherwise the rest of the things we saw we did not pay to go inside, though there are many museums to visit. For three days, visiting the Chain Bridge, Parliament at night, Fisherman’s Bastion, Buda Castle, and the Great Market Hall was enough.<br /><br /><i>Side note: Don’t go when Russian President Vladimir Putin is in town, the security will be insane…oops!</i></div></div></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/02/budapest-paris-of-east.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-375938604789758662Wed, 11 Feb 2015 20:50:00 +00002015-03-09T22:39:13.751+01:00ParisrevisitingtouristzooMonkeying Around in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-3Nz-63o-5bE%2FVNu9CTS-88I%2FAAAAAAAADHw%2Fg4lQ0VcgRBc%2Fs1600%2Fzoo.2015.jpg&amp;container=blogger&amp;gadget=a&amp;rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Paris wildlife" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3Nz-63o-5bE/VNu9CTS-88I/AAAAAAAADHw/g4lQ0VcgRBc/s1600/zoo.2015.jpg" height="400" title="Monkey in Paris zoo" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A new friend....</td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xd-gWgxj9_4/VNu9chNHyPI/AAAAAAAADIE/Ty2YrtXx2co/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xd-gWgxj9_4/VNu9chNHyPI/AAAAAAAADIE/Ty2YrtXx2co/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Target practice? Oh, tranquilizer darts...</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span><span style="text-align: justify;">How many orangutans have you met in Paris? It’s a question we ask ourselves almost every day, and finally, I can stand up and say, proudly, “I’ve met two, yes two orangutans in Paris.”</span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">During last week’s event, “<a href="http://parisfacecachee.fr/" target="_blank">Paris Face Cachée</a>,” Paris showed its hidden sides. I’d ignored this event before because, like all major events, they draw crowds. And I hate crowds. I will only voluntarily join thousands of people in the street when we can run 26 miles and eat bananas for hours (yes, the marathon is coming up in April, and I’m prepping).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But for whatever reason this year I clicked on the program to see what was happening, and decided to join a backstage tour of the <a href="http://www.mnhn.fr/fr/visitez/lieux/menagerie-zoo-historique-paris">Menagerie</a>, the little zoo in the Jardin des Plantes. It was on a Friday afternoon after my class, conveniently up the street from the zoo, so I paid 30 euros for two tickets, and I dragged my partner in crime (as well as sanctioned, legal events) to the zoo’s entrance.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a name='more'></a>The tour took us very literally into the backstage portions of the zoo, including the kitchen, the clinic, and behind the cages. Opened in 1794, it’s the oldest zoo in the world after one in Vienna. Side note: This is the zoo that provided a lot of pricey meat in 1870 during the Prussian siege. I don't think any of the current tenants are legacies...<br /><br />Our guide taught us quite a bit about how they raise the animals and shuffle them between zoos. It was also a holding pen for many of the residents at the Zoo de Vincennes during its renovation (it finally reopened last autumn).&nbsp;</div><div><br />We saw what the 1800 or so critters munch on for lunch and dinner – including samples of the 12-13 metric tons of veggies and fruits that cost 1.5 million euros each week. Don’t complain about your food bill. The rations aren't &nbsp;leftovers and restaurant scraps, according to our guide, who called the fresh produce 5-star quality. I even saw some soy sauce on shelf for the guinea pig stir-fry, I assumed.<br /><br />We poked around in the freezer – frozen rabbits, guinea pigs, and a bag of baby mice were all on the menu for carnivores. Yummy.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: start;"><br /></span></div></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3vNDjQEenwQ/VNu9gl1Tz5I/AAAAAAAADIQ/2Wzbum_BLvo/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3vNDjQEenwQ/VNu9gl1Tz5I/AAAAAAAADIQ/2Wzbum_BLvo/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackpot...</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: start;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bnlhQhOcDfg/VNu9bOZNESI/AAAAAAAADH4/xY8N1aMgTH4/s1600/IMG_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bnlhQhOcDfg/VNu9bOZNESI/AAAAAAAADH4/xY8N1aMgTH4/s1600/IMG_0001.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></div></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It takes a lot of dog food to feed all those monkeys..."</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Afterwards, we headed behind locked doors to the inner workings of the primate pavilion to get up close and personal with two of the orangutans, to learn about how the handlers condition and train these apes (<i>not</i> monkeys). Our handler took us to the younger one (another group met her mother in the habitat next door). She showed us what the orangutan could do, reinforcing her various gestures and movements with bits of diced fruit. If only older French women at the grocery store check-out could be trained as easily to wait their turn...<br /><br />The idea is to have the animals trained so that cleaning and medical tests can be performed easily. The orangutan opened her mouth and offered her ears to her handler on command, a sort of Pavlovian reflex. Apparently the orangutans understand French, but the handler admitted that we can't really confirm that. The training is a way to keep handler and the handled safe, since apparently zookeeper is a dangerous and often deadly profession. Even in Paris.<br /><br />I quickly crossed that off my potential jobs list.<br /><br />It was adorable, but also creepy watching this very alert and aware creature that didn't look so different from some of the people in the group. <br /><br />After a quick trip to the clinic where we learned how they tranquilize the animals (dart gun, duh), we headed out, a bit wiser, a bit more aware, and with a few bottles of animal-grade drugs. <br /><br />Just kidding, but they do have Smecta (like Pepto Bismol in the US) on hand in case the leopards get sick tummies. Who knew?http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/02/monkeying-around-in-paris.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-4463929388063325131Wed, 04 Feb 2015 19:43:00 +00002015-03-09T22:39:58.089+01:00encountershistoryParistouristLiving History in the Marais: An Encounter<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vh3_4CNa7wo/VNJ08shydhI/AAAAAAAADHU/XBycFJ5hmsc/s1600/IMG_0711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Paris Marais district" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vh3_4CNa7wo/VNJ08shydhI/AAAAAAAADHU/XBycFJ5hmsc/s1600/IMG_0711.JPG" height="426" title="Streets of the Marais in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marais-scape...you &nbsp;never know who you'll meet...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><i>Paris miracles</i>. They do happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I was walking along rue Rambuteau in the Marais, showing some tourists the many pastry shops, trying to convince them that they needed more sugar. They had hit their limit. Oh well.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of them stopped in front of an Asian restaurant – one of those <i>traiteurs</i> with lots of choices – and asked what they served. He realized pretty quickly, so we were about to move on when an older Frenchman stopped us. He was impeccably dressed, with piercing eyes to match his baby blue scarf.</div><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><div style="text-align: justify;">“Are you American?” he asked?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I thought we were about to be berated for looking at the Asian food.</div></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a>“Why yes we are,” the tourists said hesitantly, but with no remorse. I thought they were in for it.<o:p></o:p><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“I am 84 years old. My father and mother were in the Resistance,” he began. “I was very young, in Normandy,” he began to lose his words. “<i>Vous parlez français?</i>” he asked me sweetly. I nodded, and translated the rest of his discourse.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Out in the fields in Normandy, there were tombs,” he said, “where the American soldiers were buried, those who were gunned down by the Germans after the D-Day landings (<i>D-Day he said in English</i>). My father told me, ‘Go out and there and say a prayer at those tombs,’” at this point I think he started to tear up a bit. “My father said, ‘Those American boys died so that you could be free,’ and so I did go say a prayer. I still remember that,” he said, trembling.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Zru13Oxf9M/VNJ06qbLX2I/AAAAAAAADHM/adA4k6egGZY/s1600/IMG_0779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Bike in Paris's Marais district" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2Zru13Oxf9M/VNJ06qbLX2I/AAAAAAAADHM/adA4k6egGZY/s1600/IMG_0779.JPG" height="426" title="Cityscape in Marais Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scene in the Marais...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">He shook our hands, earnestly, and even kissed the woman’s hand. A ghostly look overcame my tourists, like some sort of emotional drain. They were touched. I was about to let a tear roll down my cheek. We were all speechless.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Thank you,” he said, “and have a wonderful time in Paris.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We walked away, slightly stunned. We Americans often joke about how the French would be speaking German if it weren’t for the US, but this man was sincere, and truly grateful. I promised my tourists that I didn’t hire him to be there… <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;,&quot;serif&quot;; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sure, I share plenty of stories on my tour about kings and queens, but this man brought the history alive – literally – and I’ll never look at that Asian take-out place the same way again.</span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/02/living-history-in-marais-encounter.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-8968512840662943159Fri, 16 Jan 2015 19:07:00 +00002015-01-16T20:09:09.180+01:00CharlieFrancejournalismParisterrorismExtra! Extra! A Post-Charlie World<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CZRSUZ0AzCw/VLlGap6vaUI/AAAAAAAADGQ/4TruZg69eZc/s1600/charlie.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CZRSUZ0AzCw/VLlGap6vaUI/AAAAAAAADGQ/4TruZg69eZc/s1600/charlie.3.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That elusive paper...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It’s funny how a silly green newspaper can mean so much. I don’t regularly do much at 6AM, on account of the sleeping and all, but this past week I couldn’t <i>not</i> get up early. I had a mission.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Paris won’t go back to normal. What does normal even mean anyway? While the city will recover from the terrorist attacks on the weekly satirical publication <i>Charlie Hebdo</i>, it’s just not going to be the same here. The scar will stay.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But that’s OK. This is France, the land of revolution, coups d’état, and protests (and amazing over-the-counter cosmetics to cover it up). Things rarely stay the same, anyway. In the 1800s alone they went through two emperors and three kings as well as two republics. That’s a lot of change.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And hopefully things will continue to change for the better, because there's definitely issues beyond "free speech" that France has to address in the wake of these attacks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RsUyD-OoA74/VLlGXPEXMZI/AAAAAAAADGI/J3U0-8XKGi4/s1600/charlie.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RsUyD-OoA74/VLlGXPEXMZI/AAAAAAAADGI/J3U0-8XKGi4/s1600/charlie.1.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"All is forgiven"</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But the French are showing the world that they're OK, and that they'll be able to deal with the change.&nbsp;This past week, Parisians were out every morning, showing their support for freedom of speech by purchasing the so-called “Survivor’s Issue” of <i>Charlie Hebdo</i>. Irreverent as ever, it featured the prophet Muhammad on the cover, celebrating freedom of speech while scandalizing once again.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I have my issues, but overall I'm proud to call France home, and I wanted to do my little part, or at least be a part of it all. I tried one morning for a paper. Failed – sold out in minutes. I tried another morning. Failed – too far back in line. It was like finding rationed meat during the Depression just to catch a glimpse of this paper. I finally tried Friday morning and hit the jackpot, in that I got a paper. <o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It’s a funny thing, seeing people waiting in line at 6AM at a newsstand, something that seems so archaic in an era of Twitter and online news. I didn’t learn about the attacks from a piece of paper. I read the AFP’s Twitter feed and the live France24 reports online.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But there we all were, standing in the cold, hoping the sellers would have the paper. Journalists were reporting on the lines, interviewing many of us who passionately, or at least adequately, described why we wanted to buy it. <o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cc4VpXhuN70/VLlGayvfWjI/AAAAAAAADGU/sliASYLnV7o/s1600/charlie.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cc4VpXhuN70/VLlGayvfWjI/AAAAAAAADGU/sliASYLnV7o/s1600/charlie.2.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'The' place to be at 6AM these days...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span><span style="text-align: justify;">It was kind of emotional when the stand starting selling them outside of the Jacques Bonsergent metro station, just a few blocks from where Sunday’s rally happened. It was a little victory for me, but a bigger one for France.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As people rushed from kiosk to kiosk, looking for a newsstand with the paper, pointing to where others may be able to get one, I thought about the implications of the terrorist attacks. As I write this, a French center burns in Niger. This morning, <i>Charlie Hebdo </i><a href="http://www.france24.com/en/20150116-charlie-hebdo-protests-turn-violent-near-french-karachi-consulate/" target="_blank">protestors fought with police</a> in Pakistan. A bomb threat led to the evacuation of the Gare de l’Est in Paris.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sure things won’t be the same, but I’ll always be able to look back and remember the bizarre comfort of waiting with a bunch of strangers in line at 6:30 in the morning and paying 3 euros for a piece of paper that never meant anything to me before.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now it’s one of the only things we can count on in a post-<i>Charlie</i> world.&nbsp;</div></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/01/extra-extra-post-charlie-world.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-2903797237460707855Sun, 11 Jan 2015 21:42:00 +00002015-01-11T22:42:17.237+01:00freedomjournalismmanifestationParisterrorismUnprecedented Paris Rally: A City Unites<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JlvUgFYXzbQ/VLLllPaXf7I/AAAAAAAADE0/fMcIfDm3UY4/s1600/rally.paris.2.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JlvUgFYXzbQ/VLLllPaXf7I/AAAAAAAADE0/fMcIfDm3UY4/s1600/rally.paris.2.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A look up Boulevard Magenta, reportedly backed up to Gare du Nord</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Hundreds of thousands, maybe millions showed up in Paris for a unity rally following the recent terrorist attacks. The AFP reported that more than 2.5 million people were marching in France, with perhaps 1.3-1.5 million in the capital. Official numbers were impossible to ascertain.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Since I live right next to the meeting place, like literally a few steps from the square, I was excited to take part in the event, as a hopefully-future-Frenchman myself. I made it out the front door, but not much further than that. The streets all around Place de la République were completely full by 3PM, when the march towards Nation was set to start. Police and news vans were all I could see in the distance over the heads of hundreds of people.&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a name='more'></a>I had imagined stumbling upon German Chancellor Angela Merkel or the King of Jordan, two of the 50 or so foreign leaders who came to support France during the march. The president also joined political leaders of various parties in France to join together on a united front.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">The crowd barely moved for over an hour, so we headed back inside, watching everything live on France24. Finally things calmed down as the march charged forward. Eventually by the time I ventured out, night had fallen and most of the marchers had reached Nation. Place de la République, however, was still alive with Parisians shouting from atop the statue as journalists did their thing.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">During the day, while I was stuck in the crowd, things seemed festive, calm, peaceful, with very little pushing, shoving, and according to police with no major issues at all. Bravo, Paris, bravo.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">By nightfall, the ambiance was joyful and celebratory, as the world patted Paris on the back for doing something truly amazing. It was well-deserved.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Paris, and France, showed what unity meant today. It was impressive, and I'd be surprised to see such an act in my home country. Let's just hope today's lesson sticks and springboards the nation into a happier future.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DcCZD7_7yRc/VLLlgeYur5I/AAAAAAAADEc/Jmcb50KaDZA/s1600/rally.paris.1.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DcCZD7_7yRc/VLLlgeYur5I/AAAAAAAADEc/Jmcb50KaDZA/s1600/rally.paris.1.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Looking towards the square, the crowds were as thick as could be.&nbsp;</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oCmwD8gdFVA/VLLlpOB_AFI/AAAAAAAADFE/-f07Sombp1I/s1600/rally.paris.3.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oCmwD8gdFVA/VLLlpOB_AFI/AAAAAAAADFE/-f07Sombp1I/s1600/rally.paris.3.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">By nightfall, the party continued as those who didn't march to Nation stayed at Place de la République as a bagpipe player played the French national anthem.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YTMgtou0J9k/VLLlrIWHv5I/AAAAAAAADFM/eoxh3p3i30s/s1600/rally.paris.4.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YTMgtou0J9k/VLLlrIWHv5I/AAAAAAAADFM/eoxh3p3i30s/s1600/rally.paris.4.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">The French weren't alone today, clearly.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xIfdqvXZ6uc/VLLlsrysvuI/AAAAAAAADFU/j8FpPfVp0Qk/s1600/rally.paris.5.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xIfdqvXZ6uc/VLLlsrysvuI/AAAAAAAADFU/j8FpPfVp0Qk/s1600/rally.paris.5.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"I think, therefore I am Charlie"</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KCYURGH7_Go/VLLlv3dPZWI/AAAAAAAADFk/_5QoSRV4QNA/s1600/rally.paris.7.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KCYURGH7_Go/VLLlv3dPZWI/AAAAAAAADFk/_5QoSRV4QNA/s1600/rally.paris.7.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Things were festive, but reverent.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rknroWMnL1U/VLLluH7HYVI/AAAAAAAADFc/9su4UnvW0s4/s1600/rally.paris.6.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-rknroWMnL1U/VLLluH7HYVI/AAAAAAAADFc/9su4UnvW0s4/s1600/rally.paris.6.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>&nbsp;<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QHY2g5HlJew/VLLlxPrCJVI/AAAAAAAADFs/vIB7gJT6Fao/s1600/rally.paris.8.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QHY2g5HlJew/VLLlxPrCJVI/AAAAAAAADFs/vIB7gJT6Fao/s1600/rally.paris.8.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Some French mistook CNN's Christiane Amanpour for Paris mayor Anne Hidalgo (fair) as she gave live updates from Place de la République.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mX3BfUAINlI/VLLly7-P4WI/AAAAAAAADF0/13IPfXeuJoc/s1600/rally.paris.9.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mX3BfUAINlI/VLLly7-P4WI/AAAAAAAADF0/13IPfXeuJoc/s1600/rally.paris.9.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"We journalism students promise to unify our pens against terrorism."</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9LEPCcuuK40/VLLlgMxoNhI/AAAAAAAADEU/W-CrO5F74og/s1600/rally.paris.10.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-9LEPCcuuK40/VLLlgMxoNhI/AAAAAAAADEU/W-CrO5F74og/s1600/rally.paris.10.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7FiH-MBSFP8/VLLlgYlbEmI/AAAAAAAADEY/0ysNzB66JC8/s1600/rally.paris.11.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7FiH-MBSFP8/VLLlgYlbEmI/AAAAAAAADEY/0ysNzB66JC8/s1600/rally.paris.11.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">"I am Muslim. I am Charlie."</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nzMCYM9PuwM/VLLliruKZkI/AAAAAAAADEs/6PhOp1fveuA/s1600/rally.paris.12.2015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nzMCYM9PuwM/VLLliruKZkI/AAAAAAAADEs/6PhOp1fveuA/s1600/rally.paris.12.2015.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><br /><ol><li style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;#JeSuisCharlie</li></ol>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/01/unprecedented-paris-rally-city-unites.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-8074047149884030285Wed, 07 Jan 2015 18:45:00 +00002015-03-11T13:36:43.940+01:00FrancefreedomjournalismParisterrorism#JeSuisCharlie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qHTxi0qKv6g/VK12sJg8KWI/AAAAAAAADBQ/Q1GM22MgrmA/s1600/IMG_4760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span id="goog_1332179785"></span><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qHTxi0qKv6g/VK12sJg8KWI/AAAAAAAADBQ/Q1GM22MgrmA/s1600/IMG_4760.JPG" height="426" width="640" /><span id="goog_1332179786"></span></a>After attacks at the weekly satire publication <i>Charlie Hebdo </i>in Paris, 12 are dead, and with them, the dream that a free press can exist securely and peacefully has also been taken from us.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">While the nation is shaken, citizens have rallied with no delay. Hundreds gathered at the Place de la République tonight to show their support for the lives lost and to rally against this terrorist act.&nbsp;</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Chanting "<i>Charlie</i>" and "<i>Liberté de l'expression</i>," the crowd raised pens in solidarity and lit candles on the statue in the middle of the square, with lights spelling out "NOT AFRAID."</div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><a name='more'></a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qxKfSw69mss/VK18XuWoUNI/AAAAAAAADCg/eLyPHu7Bg48/s1600/IMG_4776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qxKfSw69mss/VK18XuWoUNI/AAAAAAAADCg/eLyPHu7Bg48/s1600/IMG_4776.JPG" height="426" title="JeSuisCharlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1NhKCvLHtmY/VK12srtni8I/AAAAAAAADBY/uke1EuFE5cA/s1600/IMG_4773.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1NhKCvLHtmY/VK12srtni8I/AAAAAAAADBY/uke1EuFE5cA/s1600/IMG_4773.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CB-23stzy7E/VK12sKYLHwI/AAAAAAAADBU/XkjM8i2fte8/s1600/IMG_4762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CB-23stzy7E/VK12sKYLHwI/AAAAAAAADBU/XkjM8i2fte8/s1600/IMG_4762.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EH429OyiYrY/VK12uGztFaI/AAAAAAAADBo/RNx5WofpvvA/s1600/IMG_4782.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EH429OyiYrY/VK12uGztFaI/AAAAAAAADBo/RNx5WofpvvA/s1600/IMG_4782.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;"I am standing up and I am expressing myself with words because that's still the best weapon"</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lXMCV7J9Jlw/VK12vZpxKZI/AAAAAAAADBw/R-hdEpUR1eU/s1600/IMG_4790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lXMCV7J9Jlw/VK12vZpxKZI/AAAAAAAADBw/R-hdEpUR1eU/s1600/IMG_4790.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IGIqaqULGTY/VK125EU3dOI/AAAAAAAADCU/RjHAaddfFRA/s1600/IMG_4783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IGIqaqULGTY/VK125EU3dOI/AAAAAAAADCU/RjHAaddfFRA/s1600/IMG_4783.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4wfrBh6_R0o/VK12wD7I75I/AAAAAAAADB4/PS7fRGmLAGo/s1600/IMG_4797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4wfrBh6_R0o/VK12wD7I75I/AAAAAAAADB4/PS7fRGmLAGo/s1600/IMG_4797.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mSmtr9FqNNI/VK12xIIvkjI/AAAAAAAADCA/bne0M5RPI9o/s1600/IMG_4803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mSmtr9FqNNI/VK12xIIvkjI/AAAAAAAADCA/bne0M5RPI9o/s1600/IMG_4803.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ooE6wz2x_lY/VK12xw854bI/AAAAAAAADCI/kULfPu4Qbyw/s1600/IMG_4808.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ooE6wz2x_lY/VK12xw854bI/AAAAAAAADCI/kULfPu4Qbyw/s1600/IMG_4808.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />UPDATE: By midnight in Paris, the rally dwindled but a group was still at the square and preparing a march towards Bastille. Parisians light candles and leave messages by the statue in the center of the square.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xs0q9rc8ejI/VK2519bVbPI/AAAAAAAADC8/5g9Dezif2Qw/s1600/IMG_4825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xs0q9rc8ejI/VK2519bVbPI/AAAAAAAADC8/5g9Dezif2Qw/s1600/IMG_4825.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b6yykupx9kE/VK2511tUdvI/AAAAAAAADC0/Lr0kpmrLE38/s1600/IMG_4838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b6yykupx9kE/VK2511tUdvI/AAAAAAAADC0/Lr0kpmrLE38/s1600/IMG_4838.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3hfqDTh8pg/VK25187Tm_I/AAAAAAAADCw/Yu_hR370g7g/s1600/IMG_4834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q3hfqDTh8pg/VK25187Tm_I/AAAAAAAADCw/Yu_hR370g7g/s1600/IMG_4834.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hrujeV-gfP4/VK2539F6pLI/AAAAAAAADDI/XI-c1omvTGs/s1600/IMG_4845.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hrujeV-gfP4/VK2539F6pLI/AAAAAAAADDI/XI-c1omvTGs/s1600/IMG_4845.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yPS7Bzr9pZk/VK255qdnUnI/AAAAAAAADDU/qBHjVVE4zCo/s1600/IMG_4852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yPS7Bzr9pZk/VK255qdnUnI/AAAAAAAADDU/qBHjVVE4zCo/s1600/IMG_4852.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rG8c7aioN9g/VK255XMRDMI/AAAAAAAADDQ/70TkvT8TgOU/s1600/IMG_4850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rG8c7aioN9g/VK255XMRDMI/AAAAAAAADDQ/70TkvT8TgOU/s1600/IMG_4850.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-noj_TdAE7zY/VK256bdTitI/AAAAAAAADDg/HoaaxdZn_Zw/s1600/IMG_4859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-noj_TdAE7zY/VK256bdTitI/AAAAAAAADDg/HoaaxdZn_Zw/s1600/IMG_4859.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-49inUKqRTyw/VK257XP1XsI/AAAAAAAADDo/wCw7PcB4Bls/s1600/IMG_4865.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Place de la Replublique" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-49inUKqRTyw/VK257XP1XsI/AAAAAAAADDo/wCw7PcB4Bls/s1600/IMG_4865.JPG" height="426" title="Je Suis Charlie Paris" width="640" /></a></div><br />http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2015/01/jesuischarlie.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-8993867675908332251Mon, 22 Dec 2014 22:49:00 +00002014-12-23T00:09:28.576+01:00chateauChristmasFranceholidaysParistravelChristmas Fit for a King<div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe Louis XIV stole all of the architects and designers from the Chateau de&nbsp;<a href="http://www.vaux-le-vicomte.com/en/decouvrir/the-history/" target="_blank">Vaux le Vicomte</a>&nbsp;back in the 1600s, but he sure didn't steal its Christmas cheer.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Just south of Paris, this chateau dazzles, sparkles, and shimmers at Christmas time with its halls quite literally decked. And they know their way around a Christmas tree at <i>this </i>chateau. Maybe its more popular and bigger, but could the Chateau of Versailles pull off such a festive feat?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">No, and here's the proof.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First off, it's a 17th century chateau, and people still live in it, so of course it needed to be decorated...</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ab89hAZz-VY/VJiYXeEOFxI/AAAAAAAAC_Y/lg5srEUCvqk/s1600/vlv.2014.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ab89hAZz-VY/VJiYXeEOFxI/AAAAAAAAC_Y/lg5srEUCvqk/s1600/vlv.2014.2.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><a name='more'></a><div style="text-align: justify;">But they go all out, like way out there. They make the decorations within Paris look like a toddler who hated Christmas made them.The chateau embarrasses the city to no end. Just look at this winter wonderland on a tree.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fQdsWcne_w0/VJidYO6XxyI/AAAAAAAADA4/rFULGJPe9n0/s1600/vlv.2014.12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fQdsWcne_w0/VJidYO6XxyI/AAAAAAAADA4/rFULGJPe9n0/s1600/vlv.2014.12.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And then there was this one, with that owl who just knows he's better than any decoration at my house. He knows that I know, which makes it worse.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ADd2wVOWT08/VJiYY7jtQxI/AAAAAAAAC_g/WEnxK1XkPFI/s1600/vlv.2014.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ADd2wVOWT08/VJiYY7jtQxI/AAAAAAAAC_g/WEnxK1XkPFI/s1600/vlv.2014.3.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And they don't even have to trim their trees like pros to prove anything because the owners own a chateau. Like, a real one. But they do it anyway, because they <i>can</i>. And despite having to worry about an entire <i>chateau</i>, they still&nbsp;know how to work a holiday bow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ATsnwMXThKk/VJiYi1wtjpI/AAAAAAAADAQ/7WfilVA6c04/s1600/vlv.2014.9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ATsnwMXThKk/VJiYi1wtjpI/AAAAAAAADAQ/7WfilVA6c04/s1600/vlv.2014.9.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And they know how to keep Christmas fun and childlike. I mean, come on, they feature giraffes in one room. How much fun is this?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZrEO5Wj8sM/VJiYY5PgUVI/AAAAAAAAC_k/pYmYhptqhPc/s1600/vlv.2014.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZrEO5Wj8sM/VJiYY5PgUVI/AAAAAAAAC_k/pYmYhptqhPc/s1600/vlv.2014.1.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And then they hit you with this one in the grand foyer and Christmas just wins, it just totally wins. It's all over the place and you can't even help but smile. And that's not even a real tree underneath those decorations, but you don't care. Christmas, 1000 points. Every other day, 0.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h3Sa2xnzsgo/VJiYecJKnAI/AAAAAAAAC_w/m3WwmLZGOYA/s1600/vlv.2014.4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h3Sa2xnzsgo/VJiYecJKnAI/AAAAAAAAC_w/m3WwmLZGOYA/s1600/vlv.2014.4.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And because you own a chateau, you do whatever you want. "I want a deer in the library, next to that tree, because <i>I </i>own a chateau and <i>I </i>call the shots." The deer was all like, "Whatever," but we were impressed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QIWXOfpNfC4/VJiYz0WkipI/AAAAAAAADAY/e2LD2PBkZt8/s1600/vlv.2014.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QIWXOfpNfC4/VJiYz0WkipI/AAAAAAAADAY/e2LD2PBkZt8/s1600/vlv.2014.5.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And this delightful mess of Christmas tomfoolery. Playful, elegant, and totally Louis XIV-approved.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bkH_1OS0wbQ/VJicYPYCQmI/AAAAAAAADAk/2ejwBjdWruM/s1600/vlv.2014.10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bkH_1OS0wbQ/VJicYPYCQmI/AAAAAAAADAk/2ejwBjdWruM/s1600/vlv.2014.10.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">And then they set the table and invited us all over for Christmas dinner, but we had to decline. We have plans already.</div></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VaCSbHrFLEw/VJiYe8HOMfI/AAAAAAAAC_8/SFSGrjVSjpk/s1600/vlv.2014.6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VaCSbHrFLEw/VJiYe8HOMfI/AAAAAAAAC_8/SFSGrjVSjpk/s1600/vlv.2014.6.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But dinner was being prepared as we visited, so we felt rude and promised we'd come back for another occasion (but we're Parisian, so that was a flaky commitment at best). I do, however, like duck...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfsgM47vbPo/VJiYhpiQfOI/AAAAAAAADAI/Ck4OZ5ZCHtM/s1600/vlv.2014.8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xfsgM47vbPo/VJiYhpiQfOI/AAAAAAAADAI/Ck4OZ5ZCHtM/s1600/vlv.2014.8.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Well, then we saw this dead boar, which raised eyebrows. Some things are best kept hidden from your guests. I feel like that's a Miss Manners faux pas right there...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OcJ5sfjJO8g/VJidX0g3awI/AAAAAAAADAw/o9-nJs25Bcs/s1600/vlv.2014.11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OcJ5sfjJO8g/VJidX0g3awI/AAAAAAAADAw/o9-nJs25Bcs/s1600/vlv.2014.11.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">But we took a walk around and thought, "Yeah, I could live here." Maybe one day, or maybe I'll just steal the Christmas tree decorator for my apartment not unlike Louis XIV. We'll see next year...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v5ssWB00u2M/VJiYe-z-hdI/AAAAAAAAC_4/bXYfo-ayu_E/s1600/vlv.2014.7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v5ssWB00u2M/VJiYe-z-hdI/AAAAAAAAC_4/bXYfo-ayu_E/s1600/vlv.2014.7.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/12/christmas-fit-for-king.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-7908067978196773074Mon, 15 Dec 2014 14:06:00 +00002014-12-15T15:06:38.984+01:00ChristmasFrancemarketProvinstourismProvins: Medieval Christmas Market and Other Oddities<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-04J_ffZgdTs/VI7n8yNFLvI/AAAAAAAAC-w/78Q87atxDCg/s1600/provins.6.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-04J_ffZgdTs/VI7n8yNFLvI/AAAAAAAAC-w/78Q87atxDCg/s1600/provins.6.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Something out of a <i>Game of Thrones </i>episode, or nearly.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Nothing says Christmas like wenches and codpieces – or at least that was the impression I was getting. Provins, a little town just southeast of Paris, is known for its annual Medieval Christmas market one weekend each December. This past weekend, it all happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I had been waiting for years to find the right moment to go to Provins. I’ve read about and to me, it was a secret little vault of miracles just outside my front door. But alas, I had procrastinated. But being Christmas, and needing to get into the spirit, I decided it was the right year, month, and day.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">An early train on Sunday whisked us away, and in just over an hour, we were there, walking back through time, mostly, through the streets of Provins. I mean, they’re not stuck in the past entirely – they have a Monoprix, after all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5E4VMKccHS8/VI7n1hlM4dI/AAAAAAAAC-g/3bxHXxAON54/s1600/provins.1.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5E4VMKccHS8/VI7n1hlM4dI/AAAAAAAAC-g/3bxHXxAON54/s1600/provins.1.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These bozos...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A UNESCO heritage site, the city hosted the biggest medieval fairs when the area was controlled by the leaders of Champagne. Today, the half-timber houses and ramparts are still all around, offering an escape from Paris.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But we were there for the Medieval Christmas market, whatever that meant. I had been to Strasbourg’s Christmas market, so my expectations of what a proper one should be are slightly skewed, but I thought Provins would hold up its end of the bargain by giving me something unique and worthwhile.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">By wandering and ignoring the other tourists, we scaled the walled historic part of the city, past towers and walls, and eventually to a square with stalls everywhere in the upper town. It was something out of <i>Game of Thrones</i>, really. But the French version. Hot wine was mulling over the fire while chestnuts were roasting over an open fire, literally. Grand, truly.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-__9R33KpNrY/VI7n9ANcWSI/AAAAAAAAC-0/2FFd0lEXTYk/s1600/provins.4.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-__9R33KpNrY/VI7n9ANcWSI/AAAAAAAAC-0/2FFd0lEXTYk/s1600/provins.4.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, chestnuts roasting on [nearly] open fire...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">And the costumes! Half the attendees were in get-ups pulled from either a Tolkien novel or <i>Xena, Warrior Princess</i>. One woman casual stroked the dead scarf around her neck while another sported a kilt, and many others carried weapons that would probably have the police on alert if we were in America.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Fortunately no weapons were used and everyone was in good spirits as vendors peddled their artisan wares – horns, wooden beer steins, puppets, and spices. It was a much romanticized version of the Middle Ages, I think, given the lack of plague or any detectable stenches. Alas, there were no dragons, but one woman had a pet dove, while another man had a brown chick perched on his shoulder. Close enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fHMBXv4scx0/VI7n1WdyIfI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/fT1KtoKrr6s/s1600/provins.2.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fHMBXv4scx0/VI7n1WdyIfI/AAAAAAAAC-Y/fT1KtoKrr6s/s1600/provins.2.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the less-traditional medieval-esque goods for sale...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Down below, in the center of town, another Christmas market, lacking any medieval décor, boasted about two dozen or so stalls with ornaments, cheesy&nbsp;<i>raclette</i> sandwiches, confectioneries, and other gift ideas. It was a bit more traditional, but with none of it was the chintzy stuff we find on the Champs Elysées in Paris. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We bought a few decorations for the tree, some coconut <i>rochers</i>, and a bottle of bubbles after a tasting by Vins&amp;Une, a start-up where the owner brings local wine makers directly to the customers. The Champagne was exceptionally good, and at 20 euros a bottle, I couldn’t say no. Especially not to a start-up. She promised she’ll have a tasting in Paris in the winter – I’ll be the first in line.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The standout at the Christmas market may have been the ice skating rink, which didn’t seem to contain any ice, just some sort of plastic tiles. The kids didn’t seem to mind, but Lord help them the day they step out onto real ice and feel their feet fall out from underneath them…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mI5Ug-LqUeE/VI7n9rsX74I/AAAAAAAAC-8/STAiw3tmA2w/s1600/provins.5.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mI5Ug-LqUeE/VI7n9rsX74I/AAAAAAAAC-8/STAiw3tmA2w/s1600/provins.5.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love a good rampart...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">All in all, after about three hours, we had done Provins and the markets. I wasn’t expecting to stay until last call, but I had expected a little more production value. The man hammering a sword against an anvil was a bit lackluster, and the bits of Christmas carols playing over the speakers in the center of town were festive, but slightly eerie, as if Bing Crosby were stalking you through the streets.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">There is plenty more to do in Provins – I think – if you are really into medieval stuff, notably architecture, but we weren’t at that moment. We came, we Christmased, and we peaced out on an early train back to Paris with a few sweets, a few baubles, and a bit of bottled holiday cheer.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Far from disappointed, I still think I might go back to Strasbourg for Christmas before I head back to Provins next year, but for a quick, easy, and affordable daytrip from Paris, I don’t regret it.</div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/12/provins-medieval-christmas-market-and.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-5980355504836179228Tue, 25 Nov 2014 10:00:00 +00002015-03-11T13:37:50.723+01:00budgetParisSorbonnestudentworkingStudying at the Sorbonne: Making Money<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2s53GYSDYnE/VHIBnC1ZshI/AAAAAAAAC9M/APxtK9QMfgg/s1600/working.paris.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Save money, make money" border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2s53GYSDYnE/VHIBnC1ZshI/AAAAAAAAC9M/APxtK9QMfgg/s1600/working.paris.3.JPG" height="426" title="Studying in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Work hard, play hard. No need to sacrifice everything if you're earning pennies...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">How does a student survive in Paris? I’ve been getting this question a lot lately, and I thought it might be useful to share a bit of info to dispel any notions that we students are all funded by our parents. That is certainly not the case for me and nearly all of the international students I know. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Clearly, it is very possible to live in Paris as a student. Why else would it be the top city for students, in <a href="https://sg.news.yahoo.com/paris-named-worlds-best-student-city-2015-110219504.html" target="_blank">this&nbsp;year’s QS ranking</a>s?&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But here’s the thing – nothing s handed to you, and no one will give you the answers if you don’t ask. So since so many people have been asking me, I thought I’d give back a bit of insider info in a nice, convenient, English-speaking manner. While no means exhaustive or universally-applicable, this list should get the ball rolling for any student wannabes in France.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">The Cost <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Just for a refresher, check out <a href="http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/03/studying-at-sorbonne-costs.html" target="_blank">my post earlier this year</a> on the costs of living in Paris and attending the Sorbonne. Some things (tuition) are cheap. Other things (rent) can be expensive. So prepare a budget and stick to it.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Making Money<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">So here’s the deal. Non-EU students with a visa can only work so much (about 20 hours a week) with a contract. What’s that mean? Imagine you get a job at a café, a shop, or even a place like Starbucks, the employer can only legally hire you for 20 hours a week. Imagine you earn maybe 10 euros an hour (<i>SMIC</i>, or minimum wage, is 9.53 euros an hour in 2014), take out taxes, and you have probably somewhere around 150 euros a week in the bank if you’re lucky.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">That’s not a whole lot, I know. Especially if your rent is 600 euros, because you know, food is fun sometimes. This is why it helps to save up for a year or two at the Sorbonne. But for those who think, “Oh man, I’m screwed,” don’t give up so easily. While many students do manage a meager existence through such low-paying, part-time jobs, there are other options instead of, or in addition to these <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m08Gv2vToIY/VHIBno3BNhI/AAAAAAAAC9U/k9jQ0GM3JG8/s1600/working.paris.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Picnic to save money" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m08Gv2vToIY/VHIBno3BNhI/AAAAAAAAC9U/k9jQ0GM3JG8/s1600/working.paris.1.JPG" height="426" title="Studying in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't need a lot of money to enjoy Paris...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">A “Job”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">So if you want stable income, get a legitimate job with a contract. A contract will either be a CDI (an indeterminate, or endless contract) or a CDD (a contract with a timeframe built in). If you have a CDI at a café, you’re set, you get your healthcare more or less taken care of (though you’ll pay that at the Sorbonne, too, so be sure to request a refund from the school’s insurance if you do have a job with a contract!).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In this situation, you know how much money you’ll have to work with each month. And you won’t be able to get fired too easily, either. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">You’ll have to work around your school schedule, so work that out in advance as well. Usually there are few night classes at the Sorbonne, so an evening job isn’t a terrible idea. Homework isn’t crazy, and many programs don’t require much reading, but it depends on your program of course.</span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">“Freelancing”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Now imagine you want to make a bit more money. For example, I liked to be able to put my heat on for a few minutes in the winter, and I also sprang for socks without holes in them from time to time. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">So I wanted to earn a bit more. I began freelancing, working jobs around my schedule, and negotiating fees beyond the minimum wage or at least working as much as I wanted without being limited by a 20 hour contract.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The pros? You can work as much as you want and earn more money.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The cons? There is no stability, no contract, and no guarantee you’ll have a certain amount of money each month.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">There are a few ways to do this. First, you can work directly for a family as an au pair (nanny), an English tutor, or a babysitter. These jobs tend to work well with a university student schedule and can pay handsomely if you find the right family. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Craigslist, posts at American schools, or even just word of mouth are the best way to poke around for such a job. Once you get into the French family business, it becomes easier to find other families to hire you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Secondly, other people work under the table for various companies (usually found on Craigslist again, but be careful!) earning cash for services often related to the service industry. Sometimes you’ll get paid into a British or American bank account instead of into your French one. Sometimes you’ll get paid into PayPal. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">There are many ways that people go around the “customary” (read: legal) ways of paying you. Be wary of such jobs since they rarely provide any benefits and you have no leverage.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">At least families are usually nice and depend on you. Businesses will more likely exploit you if they are going under the table.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Then there is a third way to work as a freelancer – become what the French call an <i><a href="http://autoentrepreneur.fr/" target="_blank">autoentrepreneur</a></i>.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Essentially it’s a fiscal status that creates you – and just you – into your own company. It gives you a tax ID number that you can use to create invoices, pay taxes, and work legally on your own terms.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Legally working for yourself? Yes – you need not have a storefront or an office to have a company. You can do it from home, in pajamas, at 3AM in the morning if you want. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">What does this look like in practice? If you are an <i>autoentrepreneur</i>and you want to offer design services for a company, translate documents for a business, bake cakes for holiday parties, act as a consultant for a company, or provide any other type of service that an organization might need, you can do it – legally!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Essentially you are a subcontractor who comes in for a project, fulfills a need, and then moves on, or else provides further assistance for the same client.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">You agree on a price, you create a bill for them, and they can legally pay you. It’s then up to you to enter your earnings online and report them to the government (an easy process). It’s a pretty cool system that has allowed me do work for plenty of various employers – or actually, clients – in Paris. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xYN-anvNzlc/VHIBo7y-fuI/AAAAAAAAC9k/-XDLhB7X830/s1600/working.paris.4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Work hard, take naps" border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xYN-anvNzlc/VHIBo7y-fuI/AAAAAAAAC9k/-XDLhB7X830/s1600/working.paris.4.JPG" height="426" title="Studying in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, it will be tiring...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Be careful, however, that a company doesn’t hire you in a sort of 9-5 position, telling you that you need to enroll as an <i>autoentrepreneur</i>. The idea is to be a freelancer, not an office worker. If you are working an office job and getting paid as an <i>autoentrepreneur</i>, this is basically the employer’s way of hiring cheap labor, and it’s technically illegal. They don’t have to pay the taxes to keep you as a worker, including your health benefits. That becomes your responsibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Why work a regular job if you don’t get any of the perks???<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Regardless, the status is a great way around the fixed income of a 20-hour week, or a great complement to it. It allowed me to work at night in a pizzeria and on weekend give tours for a company and earn extra money. Win-win!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Multiple Incomes<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I guess I should stress that for real poor students, or those with no savings or parental financing, prepare to work multiple jobs. Try to have multiple sources of income in order to be able to live comfortably and not always be stressing about money.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It’s better in my opinion to be busy and know that you can pay for dinner than to have a lot of free time to “study” (read: waste time on Facebook) and be worried about money issues.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I found that working more forced me to be more organized, and my grades actually did better as I had less time to dedicate to school during the busier periods. If you’re the opposite, plan accordingly…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3KNWAjwyoI/VHIBnmhQpPI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/Zlbtul1WCHs/s1600/working.paris.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Markets offer cheaper food" border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3KNWAjwyoI/VHIBnmhQpPI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/Zlbtul1WCHs/s1600/working.paris.2.JPG" height="426" title="Studying in Paris" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Earning less? Learn to eat cheap...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Managing Expectations<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Last but not least, French students don’t carry Louis Vuitton bags or go for dinners at Michelin-starred restaurants every week. Most Parisians don’t, for that matter. Prepare to cook for yourself, to go to the market, to buy clothes at H&amp;M or Uniqlo, and to drink cheap wine instead of cocktails. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">You’re here to study, to get a degree, and to reap the benefits of higher education once your diploma is in hand. That dreamy Paris in the movies is going to have to wait. You have some Nietzsche to read…<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/11/studying-at-sorbonne-making-money.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-5976785740140486384Tue, 18 Nov 2014 08:41:00 +00002014-11-18T10:18:26.462+01:00FrancelunchOrleanstourismtouristtravel[Old] Orléans, A Joan of Arc Fandom <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oNwL99rLthk/VGsCQYd-m2I/AAAAAAAAC7Q/q6ZqqgNXf_E/s1600/orleans.4.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oNwL99rLthk/VGsCQYd-m2I/AAAAAAAAC7Q/q6ZqqgNXf_E/s1600/orleans.4.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading back to the Middle Ages...</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: justify;">It’s was a Wednesday. I wasn’t working. The sun would be out, so really, all signs pointed towards a daytrip outside of Paris. But where to go?</span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The destination was selected thanks to SNCF, France’s national train service. Using their website, I found 20 euro round-trip tickets to several towns. After a quick look on WikiVoyage, I kept coming back to Orléans, about an hour south of Paris, on the Loire River. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Now, we had spent a significant amount of time in the Loire this summer, but I had never been to Orléans. More than the namesake for the “New” version in the US, and with less gumbo, it is a hub of medieval history where Joan of Arc famously led French troops into battle against the English.</span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DBAU6s0jBTY/VGsCLSIpoHI/AAAAAAAAC7E/Bc2zn67dGRM/s1600/orleans.2.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DBAU6s0jBTY/VGsCLSIpoHI/AAAAAAAAC7E/Bc2zn67dGRM/s1600/orleans.2.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Local celebrity, Joan of Arc</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US">So why <i>not </i>go? Failing to find a reason, I booked<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The night before heading off, I skimmed a <i><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2012/07/22/travel/36-hours-in-orleans-france.html" target="_blank">New YorkTimes</a> </i>article on 36 hours in the town (way too much time to plan for, if you ask me) and found out that a one-star Michelin restaurant was nestled along the river. I figured I’d make a reservation in the morning, since I’d never dined in a Michelin starred restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Wednesday morning, my travel partner and I grabbed our backpacks and headed to Gare d’Austerlitz, ready for a mini adventure. Upon arrival at the train station, I called the restaurant to see if I could make a reservation. I snagged one. The day was planned. Wander. Lunch. Wander. A drink. Head home. Easy enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F8H164zOjVQ/VGsCLKsdtWI/AAAAAAAAC64/tn_3HcfMBE0/s1600/orleans.1.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-F8H164zOjVQ/VGsCLKsdtWI/AAAAAAAAC64/tn_3HcfMBE0/s1600/orleans.1.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The cathedral</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In terms of sights, there isn’t too much to see, since the town is more of a base for those visiting the wine makers and <a href="http://www.leschateauxdelaloire.co.uk/sites-and-monuments-visit-around-orleans" target="_blank">chateaus </a>in the Loire Valley – if you rent a car. The more impressive ones are a bit farther away.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But if you just want to stay in town, there is plenty to do for a day. The impressive cathedral, Sainte Croix d’Orléans, is a good place to start before heading to the adjacent Office of Tourism for a map. The stained glass windows depict numerous scenes from Joan of Arc's life (and death).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Afterwards, we wandered around the smaller streets of the old town, like rue Bourgogne and Place de la République, where a statue of their local celebrity Joan of Arc looks over the square. The girl is seriously everywhere. We managed to work up an appetite wandering for an hour or so, passing by the Quai du Châtelet along the river. Finally we headed to the <a href="http://www.lelievregourmand.com/en/" target="_blank">Lièvre Gourmand</a> (The Gourmet Hare?), expecting to be fed something special – that one Michelin star being the first one I’d ever known.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m_EqIZvEels/VGsCb1A795I/AAAAAAAAC7g/p79RWZ7UQb4/s1600/orleans.8.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m_EqIZvEels/VGsCb1A795I/AAAAAAAAC7g/p79RWZ7UQb4/s1600/orleans.8.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Autumn foliage</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">And the restaurant did not disappoint. The chef, who recently took over the one-star restaurant from its Australian founder (who retired to&nbsp; Miami, go figure), kept the plates rolling out for the 45 euro lunch menu we chose. Two plates for 35 euros just didn’t seem like enough. Three dishes and dessert were offered, and we splurged for a house cocktail, a glass of wine, and coffee for a very reasonable price.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But the dishes – oiy. Truffles and risotto, scallops with radishes, and a sweet potato <i>parmentier</i> were among the dishes that we tasted, each one paired with a smaller side, like foie gras, soba noodles, and broccoli soup. It was a total yum fest. And the best part? We had the whole place to ourselves. It was almost a bit intimidating to be the sole customers (on a random Wednesday afternoon in November) but the server, the chef’s wife, was easy-going and very helpful. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">And let’s not even talk about the pumpkin soufflé and lemon-basil meringues we had for dessert…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">Our bellies filled and our expectations forever exceeded, we wandered back out in the town. Sightseeing time!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8kM8QTPvVlo/VGsCMRsGaSI/AAAAAAAAC7I/kzz1DVqAFTA/s1600/orleans.3.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8kM8QTPvVlo/VGsCMRsGaSI/AAAAAAAAC7I/kzz1DVqAFTA/s1600/orleans.3.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's everywhere...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A ticket at the nearby <a href="http://www.jeannedarc.com.fr/maison/maison.htm" target="_blank">Joan of Arc House</a> gives you a short informative film about the city’s most famous visitor. The ticket also grants entrance to the tiny, but why-not-it’s-there archaeological museum, including more on Joan's life. You could also putz around the science and nature museum, or the FRAC, the city’s contemporary art hall, but there was too much sun to mess around with every museum.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We headed back to the cathedral to the nearby Hôtel Groslot, open for free. The old town hall at one point, it features five gorgeous rooms that once welcomed kings and dukes. Today they are where locals get married. The wallpaper, nailed to the wall, is a 19<sup>th</sup>century design meant to mimic how the building was decorated in the late 16<sup>th</sup>century when Henri III was king. And yes, it’s really totally free. And there is a bathroom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ft22mfwe6g0/VGsCoiMhD0I/AAAAAAAAC7o/yqRFg4-SmLI/s1600/orleans.6.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ft22mfwe6g0/VGsCoiMhD0I/AAAAAAAAC7o/yqRFg4-SmLI/s1600/orleans.6.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside&nbsp;<span style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hôtel Groslot</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">By the end of the day, you’ve kind of seen the town, and unless you really like small museums, there isn’t a whole lot to keep you around for a second day unless you're off to explore the rest of the Loire Valley. But since tickets are available, as mentioned, for 20 euros round trip, it’s easy and justifiable to head back to Paris around 7PM with a few pastries for the ride from the Patisserie les Musardines, just in front of the station on rue de la&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span>République.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">And if nothing else, splash out on that lunch at the&nbsp;</span>Lièvre Gourmand – you won’t be disappointed.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">GO</span></b><span lang="EN-US">: SNCF, 20 euro deals from Gare d’Austerlitz<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">STAY</span></b><span lang="EN-US">: Um, maybe don’t…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">EAT</span></b><span lang="EN-US">: Lièvre Gourmand, for lunch. Patisserie les Musardines for a sweet or savory to go (I'm sure there are others)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b>SEE</b>: Cathedral Sainte Croix d’Orléans, Hôtel Groslot, Quai du Châtelet (riverbanks), Place de la République, Maison de Jeanne d’Arc (Joan Arc house)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/11/old-orleans-joan-of-arc-fandom.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-7364120858364825449Tue, 11 Nov 2014 22:12:00 +00002014-11-11T23:12:26.158+01:00crazy ideashappyParispastrystreet foodsurprisesTrue Happiness in Paris: Princess Crêpe<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dyUKAzV6qNI/VGKIKMBeFoI/AAAAAAAAC6Q/WBjfwHUWkyQ/s1600/crepes.3.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dyUKAzV6qNI/VGKIKMBeFoI/AAAAAAAAC6Q/WBjfwHUWkyQ/s640/crepes.3.2014.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, in Paris.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I kicked myself for coming to the Marais on a Sunday afternoon. Of course the lines for falafel were too long. Disappointed in myself, hating everyone around me, but more importantly hungry, we headed down rue des Ecouffes to a little Japanese place called Don’s. It was a good value for some simple bento and rice bowls, but my tummy wasn’t ready to quit.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But this is not a post about Don’s. That was just the beginning of my Japanese day on a street in Paris that caters almost exclusively to both Jews and lesbians. You know, the usual type of Sunday.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Finally, after more than three years, I decided it was time to try the creperie just down the street, called Princess Crêpe, opened in 2011. Hardly news, but it's a shop that's proven itself.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v00VTR7-s7w/VGKIKLqHjSI/AAAAAAAAC6U/8SWIYPbK0-g/s1600/crepes.2.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v00VTR7-s7w/VGKIKLqHjSI/AAAAAAAAC6U/8SWIYPbK0-g/s640/crepes.2.2014.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh the choices!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Sure, I, like every Parisian, had my doubts. This fluffy pink shop, run by young Japanese girls, doesn’t really make your mouth water. The plastic models of sweet and savory crepes outside is right out of Tokyo, but it’s far from inspirational. But today, I was taking chances.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In we went, with no customers in sight, and I ordered a banana crepe with vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">As we waited, passers-by gawked at the cutesy storefront, as my dessert partner and I sat in the heart-shaped window. Two Russian girls actually came in and asked us, paying customers, to get up and move so they could get a picture in the window. We obliged. They bought nothing, took the picture, and left. The Japanese girls laughed uncomfortably. I put that in my “stereotypes-to-confirm” box for later.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LBQQKzcDPr4/VGKIImq8LpI/AAAAAAAAC6I/UQ3oitL-qDA/s1600/crepes.1.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LBQQKzcDPr4/VGKIImq8LpI/AAAAAAAAC6I/UQ3oitL-qDA/s640/crepes.1.2014.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A very happy boy.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Back in our seats, the crepe arrived, wrapped in a perfect pink cone, topped with Chantilly cream. We spent no time digging in, the ice cream melting slowly in the warm crepe, the cream mixing with the chocolate sauce as we discovered the sliced bananas sinking to the bottom.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It was pretty good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But things got even better as I listened to the music piping over the speakers. I thought I was dreaming as an orchestral mix of Disney music segued into a song from <i>The Little Mermaid</i>, then from <i>Hercules</i>, then from <i>The Lion King</i>. All of the sudden, I found myself singing along with the seemingly 14-year-old Japanese girl behind the counter. I don’t think I had felt this happy in Paris since, well, since ever.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4nfDl9ClIWQ/VGKIMOw27HI/AAAAAAAAC6g/XWWUNaSZKCo/s1600/crepes.4.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4nfDl9ClIWQ/VGKIMOw27HI/AAAAAAAAC6g/XWWUNaSZKCo/s640/crepes.4.2014.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">3 rue des Ecouffes, 75004. Go.<o:p></o:p></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Maybe this is reflective of me as a person, or more likely as a Parisian, but I didn’t want to leave that shop and venture back into the real world. Unfortunately the crepe came to an end as the music quieted with the arrival of more customers. We were out the door of our Disneyfied Tokyo escape and on our way. Back into the crowds, the sullen faces, the grey sky – back into Paris.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But the next time I need a break from this city, I know where I can go for a sugar fix and for some, ya know, <i>real</i> music.</div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/11/true-happiness-in-paris-princess-crepe.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-4811390543160459379Thu, 06 Nov 2014 10:32:00 +00002014-11-06T11:32:36.736+01:00internettechnologytelecommunicationstourismtouristtravelWhen Technology Taints Travel<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jbMusfJI1rY/VFp4ID_YOHI/AAAAAAAAC5k/pNJlE0-ZqnI/s1600/blog.tech.travel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jbMusfJI1rY/VFp4ID_YOHI/AAAAAAAAC5k/pNJlE0-ZqnI/s1600/blog.tech.travel.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My newest enemy...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Back in 2006, I called my parents from my semester abroad in a phone booth. I had a little digital camera and a phone that could only text and make calls. There was – gasp – no camera on the phone. Twitter had just been born but Instagram was four years down the road. I didn’t have a Gmail account.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Life was good.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Living in Paris and backpacking across Italy, taking weekend trips to Stockholm, or planning spring break in Prague were all done in the most rudimentary way possible: with paper and people.&nbsp; It was a hipster approach to travel without even trying to be hipster. I was just broke. I had invested in or borrowed a few guides, but I mainly relied on people in the places I went to visit to find out the things to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I vaguely remember sitting in my school’s library searching things, and maybe I read a few posts on TripAdvisor, but I mostly booked accommodations and flights and the rest was figured out on the go. I even remember using the SNCF travel agency to book trains. Those were the days.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Now, still living in Paris but weighed down with a few more tools, I have an easier time figuring out where to go, but it’s almost to a fault. Don't feel the need to cite the endless list of ways technology helps us travel, because I embrace it. I know technology makes travel better in many ways from letting us dream more to bookings to sharing tips afterwards.&nbsp;</span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US"><i>But still</i>, it’s become more difficult to visit a place and enjoy it as the 20-year-old me did – innocently and spontaneously, where everything was a source of wonder even if it wasn’t a top-rated attraction or restaurant that needed to be documented. It seems we might have taken our love of technology too far when we travel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Fortunately, I can take the blame for, and ultimately change most of my own complaints about travel and technology. I don't need to bring my phone or camera. I don’t have to look up everything on TripAdvisor, and when I travel abroad, I usually don’t stress too much if I’m alone. I remember eating a crappy pizza in Luxembourg in 2009 and being the happiest little devil in the whole city. It was forgettable food but a memorable experience because I did it on my own. And I didn’t have a smartphone to record the moment. Just a notebook and a pen.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UWgQBvk2IVk/VFp4GfWcJKI/AAAAAAAAC5Q/hilIaxScb-U/s1600/blog.tech.travel.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UWgQBvk2IVk/VFp4GfWcJKI/AAAAAAAAC5Q/hilIaxScb-U/s1600/blog.tech.travel.3.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just as Picasso intended...look through your screen, not directly at the canvas...</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US">Observing – and often working with – tourists in Paris makes me realize that not everyone is able to resist the temptations that an increasingly digital world is throwing at us. People want to Instagram every moment, tweet every absurdity, research every step of the way without ever looking up from their iPhone. And to these ends, various forms of technology have crept on the scene that make traveling through Paris easier while also degrading the experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Take the <b>selfie sticks</b>. They might make taking selfies easier (the selfie is another issue to discuss elsewhere) but they also make it easier to ignore the place around you. What happened to the days when you’d ask a stranger to take a photo of you and your friend in front of a monument? The selfie stick, like self-check-out lines, are making it easier to avoid talking to actual people. Why go anywhere, then?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m not the biggest fan of <b>Yelp</b> and <b>TripAdvisor</b>. Of course I use them, but I hate that we can’t travel anymore without checking the ratings first. I never had a meal that was so terrible that I could vomit, and the less-memorable ones made for good stories later, like the seafood pizza I ate in Stockholm when my travel companions refused to eat reindeer with me. I dare you just to go into a restaurant and try it, with no expectations, and try to enjoy yourself. I <i>dare</i> you.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Digital cameras</span></b><span lang="EN-US"> are fantastic for photographers, but for tourists, they can quickly turn a fun photo-op into a nightmare. It’ll take ten tries to get the perfect photo. On the 35mm, you only had one chance. Two if you carried a lot of film. You didn’t have to waste precious travel minutes screwing on a fake smile. You just took the photo and then used your eyes to experience the moment. Digital cameras make it too tempting and easy to live half of a trip through a lens. And you don’t even have the surprise of the prints to flip through weeks later.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p0gxiEwE-B0/VFp4GjwE1mI/AAAAAAAAC5M/upv7vM3RhSk/s1600/blog.tech.travel.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p0gxiEwE-B0/VFp4GjwE1mI/AAAAAAAAC5M/upv7vM3RhSk/s1600/blog.tech.travel.2.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is where we're at...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A super convenience that I’m guilty of taking along, <b>the iPad </b>should come with a user manual for travelers. Lighter than a laptop, it’s great for any work or school trip where you need a reader or a word processor. But for the casual tourist, please leave it at home, or at least in the hotel. Mostly because it is not a camera. But when you hold it up at the Louvre in front of the Mona Lisa, you are making it that much more difficult for people behind you to see it. And you look ridiculous. Use your eyes. Google a picture later and upload it to Facebook if you must, but other tourists don't want to see the world through your screens.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">And <b>Wi-Fi</b>, now available almost anywhere you go in Paris (well, sort of), is one of the reasons these devices are ruining travel. We want to get that picture and capture that perfect moment so we can upload it to whatever social networking platform will run on a sluggish Wi-Fi connection. Then we hop to the next hotspot, log on, and see how many people liked it. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span><br /><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I8PYIbNHxJc/VFqACLey5ZI/AAAAAAAAC50/h9zISZwk8Pg/s1600/blog.tech.travel.4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I8PYIbNHxJc/VFqACLey5ZI/AAAAAAAAC50/h9zISZwk8Pg/s1600/blog.tech.travel.4.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just...enjoy it.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">So while we <i>can </i>all share our albums in real time, do we really <i>need </i>to? What is gained by others knowing that you were in front of the Eiffel Tower fifteen minutes ago? If you think anyone really cares, it’d be best to think again. In the same way that fifteen people will like this blog post on Facebook, I’d be surprised if any of them even read through to the end. But technology has made us dependent on the validation of others. Our experiences don't seem to matter as much as the attention they collect.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In the end, travel should be about you and the place you visit. If you’re going to invest time and money into travel, you might as well invest a bit of yourself, too.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Part of getting away is doing just that, leaving your life behind for a few days – something that we should be so lucky to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/11/when-technology-taints-travel.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-7140497688673268033Fri, 31 Oct 2014 07:59:00 +00002014-10-31T09:00:56.011+01:00autumnfriendsParisPère LachaisetouristwalkingFamous Haunts: A Walk in Père Lachaise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FS88RV2OhXg/VFH7rUbB-NI/AAAAAAAAC4A/mjC2K67oZCQ/s1600/pere.lachaise.4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FS88RV2OhXg/VFH7rUbB-NI/AAAAAAAAC4A/mjC2K67oZCQ/s1600/pere.lachaise.4.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m not obsessed with cemeteries. In fact they creep me out. But stepping into the Père Lachaise cemetery is different. It’s like walking into some marvelous wonderland where someone decided that humans should be buried. It’s like if there were a graveyard put in Disneyland – it’s out of place, but you couldn’t blame anyone for wanting to rest everlastingly there.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Père Lachaise has the same thing going on. It’s gorgeous, peaceful, and full of celebrities. So what if they happen to be dead?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I like to walk through it in the autumn, preferably with a pair of boots to crunch on the leaves falling from the orange and crimson tinged trees. I’ve got some friends there that I visit, like Oscar Wilde and Edith Piaf. I mean, sure, tons of people head to their graves, but I know they’re waiting for my visit each fall. It’s like trick-or-treating for me, even though I really do love Reese’s Cups.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I9Mqnh2Rxcc/VFH7kD8-kGI/AAAAAAAAC3o/bKgjJcW6zbQ/s1600/pere.lachaise.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-I9Mqnh2Rxcc/VFH7kD8-kGI/AAAAAAAAC3o/bKgjJcW6zbQ/s1600/pere.lachaise.2.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">As I march up crumbling staircases and along winding cobblestone paths, I forget I’m in Paris. I guess millions of dead people will do that to you. I go somewhere else. I get a little lost, then find a tomb I recognize and I get found again. There’s Visconti. There’s Jim Morrison. There’s Théordore Géricault. Then I’m off again.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The cemetery, while it puts me at ease, is also full of mysteries – ones that even Google can’t solve. How do they get the new coffins in the family tombs? What’s the deal with the chestnuts and metro tickets on Marcel Proust’s tomb? Who feeds the cats? And who are these women who think Oscar Wilde wanted their kisses?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m sure there are bigger mysteries to contemplate, but I’m a busy man. I want to know about the kisses. There are no longer any on the statue of Wilde’s tomb, but there are some on the glass surrounding it. So then I have to know, then, who Windexes the glass?<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_j6O_nARLVw/VFH7tQpSl6I/AAAAAAAAC4M/G7Th7bxhFow/s1600/pere.lachaise.6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_j6O_nARLVw/VFH7tQpSl6I/AAAAAAAAC4M/G7Th7bxhFow/s1600/pere.lachaise.6.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">So many questions and no one living around to answer. There’s a lot of silence going on here. As I stomp around, three people are at a small garden on the east side of the cemetery, not far from Wilde.&nbsp;</span>There is a park guard shushing us visitors. We have to be quiet. People are respecting and reflecting.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Heading south, I walk by all of the war and Holocaust memorials. I think of the weirdos taking pictures of these ones. How will they tag it on Facebook? What filter will they use on Instagram? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Edith Piaf is not far, though her tomb is forgettable. Tourists catch a glimpse of her after searching, visibly disappointed. They continue on while the Little Sparrow’s voice is crooning somewhere in the city at that moment. It’s just a fact.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfTG8_ey3io/VFH96KETiDI/AAAAAAAAC4w/JDzOQ107jTU/s1600/pere.lachaise.10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BfTG8_ey3io/VFH96KETiDI/AAAAAAAAC4w/JDzOQ107jTU/s1600/pere.lachaise.10.jpg" height="464" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A mother is cleaning off her son’s tomb. I assume it’s his mom. He was like 36 when he died. She looks a bit older, and a little sad. It must be hard and I want to give her a hug. But I don’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The cobblestones start to take their toll. I tightrope walk on the curb for a while, since it’s smooth, and head to the exit. The guards will start ringing the bells soon to get us all out so that they can close up the shop. It was over 100 years ago that a man broke into the cemetery to eviscerate corpses, but I don’t want to stay out to see what happens here at night. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Ben Franklin said houseguests – like fish – begin to smell after three days. Though no one here would ever dare complain of <i>my </i>odor, and it’s only been like three hours, I wanted to be respectful.<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aK1u97aPqeM/VFH7i6d-awI/AAAAAAAAC3c/iW-O5Fu23RI/s1600/pere.lachaise.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aK1u97aPqeM/VFH7i6d-awI/AAAAAAAAC3c/iW-O5Fu23RI/s1600/pere.lachaise.1.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">On the way out, a sign alerted drivers that traffic would be restricted during the weekend, during All Saints’ Day. Parisians and family members would come for their annual visit. Predictable. Only true friends show up unannounced.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Maybe I’ll come back this winter, if it snows, and we’ll have some hot chocolate. I’m looking at you Emile-Justin Menier. Sarah Bernhardt can come, too. See ya soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/10/famous-haunts-walk-in-pere-lachaise.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-6165598411803329795Mon, 27 Oct 2014 18:47:00 +00002014-10-27T19:47:42.975+01:00artchocolatemuseumsParissurprisesArt and Chocolate: Keeping Things Interesting in Paris<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-juSPxIHWgwc/VE6IwJCCsJI/AAAAAAAAC2k/V6LdKlPeeOs/s1600/chocolate.factor.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-juSPxIHWgwc/VE6IwJCCsJI/AAAAAAAAC2k/V6LdKlPeeOs/s1600/chocolate.factor.1.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's all about chocolate, right?</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The takeaway message from this weekend is that Paris can still surprise me. That’s the happy part of this story. The other part is that it took chocolate butt plugs to get to that point.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I should probably explain…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Paul McCarthy, the American artist who made headlines by inflating a giant butt plug-shaped “Tree” in Paris’s Place Vendôme, has an exhibit at the <a href="http://www.monnaiedeparis.fr/" target="_blank">Monnaie de Paris</a>. This gallery, the historic mint for French money, reopened this past weekend, October 25<sup>th</sup>, as a home to contemporary art exhibits. The first show – McCarthy’s deliciously titled “Chocolate Factory.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Since the exhibit was free this weekend, of course I went, and I absolutely loved it. I am not ashamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cqq0MIoyrjs/VE6I5PTymOI/AAAAAAAAC3I/aRyWWCU5d4I/s1600/choolate.factory.2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a name='more'></a><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cqq0MIoyrjs/VE6I5PTymOI/AAAAAAAAC3I/aRyWWCU5d4I/s1600/choolate.factory.2.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Known for being a bit of a rabble rouser, McCarthy’s show continued to deliver. In the main gallery, women in blond wigs were creating the chocolates in an atelier. Innocent enough. Further on, 9 rooms awaited me, full of shelves storing chocolate butt plugs and gnome figurines (or Santas?). A video of the artist scribbling in marker and mumbling things like “Are you the artist” and “Stupid American” played in each room, while these phrases were written on the wall alongside other obscenities. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The show clearly touched on provocation, the same that led to vandalism of his inflatable “Tree” at Place Vendôme last week. No one present seemed too mad, fortunately.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The smell of chocolate won me over, but I would have gladly paid to watch Parisians gawking at hundreds of chocolate butt plugs (for sale in the gift shop, don't forget). It was a wacky and inappropriate experience that transported you away from the quotidian of Paris and into some weird, sweet, phallic, and undeniably kooky world. <o:p></o:p></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yR_fuv6gqVA/VE6I4jktjiI/AAAAAAAAC3E/x8jiJ22-K6w/s1600/chocolate.factory.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yR_fuv6gqVA/VE6I4jktjiI/AAAAAAAAC3E/x8jiJ22-K6w/s1600/chocolate.factory.3.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On sale at the gift shop...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Those looking for the meaning it might be disappointed. I gave up right away once I realized I wasn’t going to “understand” it. If nothing else, I saw it as a love affair with chocolate and how we all secretly want to consume it however we can. Some of us – er, I mean, <i>some</i>people – like chocolate just <i>that </i>much, right? No? Maybe?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In any case, those looking for something fun to walk through, to experience, and to take at face value might appreciate McCarthy’s show.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Is Paris a boring place? No, but like any city that you live in for years, the glitter of the monuments, museums, and pastries wears off and it becomes harder to find bits of the city that make you smile for no reason. Normalcy takes hold. For me, I’m halfway there. There’s a fine line between loving riding a bike by the Eiffel Tower in awe and plowing through tourists while practicing your English swear words.<o:p></o:p></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S6fEtodveMk/VE6Iz3-bJUI/AAAAAAAAC2w/pbsna-Wcfec/s1600/chocolate.factory.5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S6fEtodveMk/VE6Iz3-bJUI/AAAAAAAAC2w/pbsna-Wcfec/s1600/chocolate.factory.5.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Such angst.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The Monnaie de Paris and “Chocolate Factory,” however, have made the city fun again – something that the phalluses like Eiffel Tower, the Obelisk, the éclair, or baguettes haven’t been able to do for me in a while (and they think the plugs are so novel?).<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">For those who think it’s vulgar and disgusting, well, it is. But who doesn’t secretly love that sort of thing? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I’d rather have Paris embrace something edgy and exciting than be a dull city with a permanent stick up its butt. Chocolate is a way better alternative. Er, or so I hear.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/10/art-and-chocolate-keeping-things.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-3484186723486238884Mon, 20 Oct 2014 08:34:00 +00002014-10-20T10:34:45.546+02:00ChicagogoalsmarathonracerunningtravelChicago in 26.2 Miles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0hwcsKKC6DU/VELdS5FzszI/AAAAAAAAC0M/lxIgcPOy2wQ/s1600/Chicago.1.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0hwcsKKC6DU/VELdS5FzszI/AAAAAAAAC0M/lxIgcPOy2wQ/s1600/Chicago.1.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">One minute and forty-two seconds more and the tears wouldn’t have been falling across a smile. Who knew such a small chunk of time could be so significant.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It was a sunny early autumn day in Chicago. The air was crisp, the gloves were on, but my red racing shorts were making their American debut. It was marathon day, the <a href="http://www.chicagomarathon.com/" target="_blank">Chicago Marathon</a>, in case that wasn't clear, and after a trans-Atlantic flight from Paris, waking up at 4:30AM was a cinch. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The task at hand was one I had already met 6 times: run 26.2 miles. Simple enough. But this time, the training, sobriety, and healthy eating that I had endured left me hell-bent on finishing the marathon in less than 4 hours, something that I almost did in Paris. This time, finishing over four hours wasn’t an option if I wanted the trip to be worth my while. Would it be lucky number seven?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XJy8TaFMhKA/VELdTqaGUVI/AAAAAAAAC0U/A_swk5Eis_8/s1600/Chicago.10.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XJy8TaFMhKA/VELdTqaGUVI/AAAAAAAAC0U/A_swk5Eis_8/s1600/Chicago.10.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a bad-looking city...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Some 45,000 runners joined the Kenyans also looking for a personal record out at Millennium Park, the sun rising slowly over Lake Michigan. After waiting with first-time marathoner Bridget for the toilets, I ran to get started and jumped in the corral with other eager participants.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Then we were off. At 7:45 in the morning, Chicago was alarmingly awake (that’s 8:45 EST for those of you on the east coast). Crowds lined the streets with signs and bells drowning out the thumping of thousands of feet along the pavement. The roar was a change from a calm Sunday morning run along the Canal St-Martin back in Paris.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The signs were way better than any during the Paris marathon. A lot of them had to do with nipples, pain, and of course poop. Wordplay was rapant (“No time for Walken” with a photo of Christopher Walken). “This seemed like a good idea four months ago” others read – and at this point it still was. “Run like you stole something!” a classic sign read, and as I ran by, I told the woman holding it that I had. She laughed. I laughed. This was a good race.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RPPNvmdHwoI/VELdmUUajcI/AAAAAAAAC0s/Yc9LosBvADI/s1600/Chicago.2.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RPPNvmdHwoI/VELdmUUajcI/AAAAAAAAC0s/Yc9LosBvADI/s1600/Chicago.2.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Bean."</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The first half went off without a hitch. I kept the pace even and calm, racing through Chicago’s iconic neighborhoods, even running into a former student from NYU in Paris who looked as surprised as I felt to see her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">After a few <a href="http://www.clifbar.com/products/clif-shot/shot-bloks" target="_blank">Clif Blok gels</a> – sweet bits of fruity goodness that feel like mushrooms in a Mario Bros game – my engines started to realize that they had to keep going for another 13 miles. That’s when the mental games started playing out, my brain tricking my legs into stopping. But I had a secret weapon that worked every time.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Cue music. “Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore…” and I was off like a flash. What better way to drown out doubt than with a Disney tune on loop in your brain?<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8IVWyi8rugY/VELd0r2Xr9I/AAAAAAAAC1U/bcMJYqM2QTs/s1600/Chicago.7.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8IVWyi8rugY/VELd0r2Xr9I/AAAAAAAAC1U/bcMJYqM2QTs/s1600/Chicago.7.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Or pizza?</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Mile 14, 15, 16, more sweet, fruity gels, 17, 18, 19, and ouch time began. People’s signs kept things entertaining, but at this point telling me I was “almost there” was something of a tease. I kept downing whatever I was fed, another Clif Blok, a piece of banana.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“I don’t care…what they’re going to say…let the storm rage on…” it started again.<i> </i>&nbsp;I could walk, right? <i>Wasn’t I going to finish well under four hours? </i>I thought. The clock suggested it, but I knew I was slowing down. 20. 21. 22. 23.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DSxEqenkFXs/VELdzBYpR_I/AAAAAAAAC1M/Rw7ZwxSD1E4/s1600/Chicago.6.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DSxEqenkFXs/VELdzBYpR_I/AAAAAAAAC1M/Rw7ZwxSD1E4/s1600/Chicago.6.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The Competition"</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I started thinking of the people I should dedicate a mile to, even if they don’t really understand the concept of marathoning. That’s something other marathoners say helps. Family members crossed my mind, even if I knew they didn’t quite get what a sub-4-hour marathon meant.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“My soul is spiraling in frozen fractals all around…” the song wouldn’t stop. Neither would my legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Finally – if not miraculously – we made it to the last three mile stretch up Michigan Avenue, the skyline not far from our view. The cheering continued, the crowds thickened, and I started picking up the pace. If I wasn’t dead at this point, chances are I could cut a few seconds off my time. Michigan Avenue opened up and the crowds were roaring, echoing all around.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U45uk9T1Otg/VELkYtdZZpI/AAAAAAAAC2A/ms4dZth4Avw/s1600/Chicago.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-U45uk9T1Otg/VELkYtdZZpI/AAAAAAAAC2A/ms4dZth4Avw/s1600/Chicago.15.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The reason for it all.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">This is where things got real. The tears I’d been fighting back for a while – yeah, it’s emotional – were about to make their grand debut. 24. 25. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Trying to convince myself that even if I didn’t finish under four hours, things were fine. But secretly I knew I had done it. You just sort of know.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">26.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Just 200 yards to go. We headed up a tiny little hill (Really? Now?) and I could see the finish line around the corner. Relief and joy washed over the entire finish line as we all barreled towards it. <o:p></o:p></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Three hours, fifty-eight minutes, and eighteen seconds. Boys do cry. I did it, even if just barely. For a marathon runner, this means a whole new world of possibilities has opened. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ltsPzm5o6Vc/VELkXyPhO9I/AAAAAAAAC18/N_YaT4Duoqk/s1600/Chicago.14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ltsPzm5o6Vc/VELkXyPhO9I/AAAAAAAAC18/N_YaT4Duoqk/s1600/Chicago.14.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's my name.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Now I get to scale my way down towards a three hour marathon – though we’ll wait a bit before that training begins.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I took my medal and felt that it was truly deserved, more than just a memento to put with the others. Chicago, it’s been real. I will forever cherish your flat course, rowdy crowds, and beautiful weather that helped this punk achieve an important goal. See you soon.</div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/10/chicago-in-262-miles.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-8145193485950389079Thu, 02 Oct 2014 16:11:00 +00002014-10-02T18:11:32.929+02:00CamargueFrancegreen-mindedsummertourismtravelThe Camargue: France's Natural Narnia<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Uv1IWYP9XgQ/VC11DkOsk9I/AAAAAAAACwE/XVcDPblSh8A/s1600/camargue.1.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Uv1IWYP9XgQ/VC11DkOsk9I/AAAAAAAACwE/XVcDPblSh8A/s1600/camargue.1.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fabled white horses of the Camargue...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">You don’t need to travel far from Paris to feel like you “got away.” After a long weekend in Marseille this summer, I rediscovered a place I had passed through several years ago that isn’t on every tourist’s radar: <a href="http://www.camargue.fr/" target="_blank">the Camargue</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The area, in southern France near the town of Arles, where Van Gogh spent his final days, is something of a French freak show, in the best way possible. It’s a mix of surprisingly beautiful flora and fauna, with certain livestock guarded by genuine French cowboys – no joke.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Pass down south, heading west along the Mediterranean, and you can experience it. We had to drive, the only way to do it besides biking, and before entering the nature reserve, we waited at a stoplight for what seemed like half an hour. The bridge, well, actually a car ferry, allowed us to pack in with other local drivers before making the crossing. Let the adventure begin.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6mOdGI5TwPU/VC11DySxbnI/AAAAAAAACwI/Y_N8V8xxhRA/s1600/camargue.2.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6mOdGI5TwPU/VC11DySxbnI/AAAAAAAACwI/Y_N8V8xxhRA/s1600/camargue.2.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Access forbidden. Stay out. Go away.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">While following the GPS, we headed towards the area that the Internet told me was rife with flamingos, the local superstar. One of some 350 species of birds in the Camargue, thousands of flamingos call the region home, with many staying during the winter instead of migrating to Africa.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We looked in vain.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We did see a car pulled over on the side of the increasingly rough road. We instinctively thought, “flamingos!” We got out and headed to the side of the road, only to be surprised by the white horses of the Camargue. The majestic creatures set on a backdrop of sea lavender were quite the spectacle. They were all too happy to come and play with us as we offered them bits of baguette that we were saving for some ducks. The horses deserved it more.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Bidding farewell to the horses, we headed back to the car, continuing to hunt the flamingos. Eventually, we reached the main marshlands, and the GPS had us driving somewhere out in the blue, clearly not on a proper road. We saw some isolated birds out in the water, but we couldn’t be sure if they were our targets or not.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FwGOBg7IRlw/VC11GX8cKgI/AAAAAAAACwc/FGTDczC6Wdg/s1600/camargue.4.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FwGOBg7IRlw/VC11GX8cKgI/AAAAAAAACwc/FGTDczC6Wdg/s1600/camargue.4.edited.JPG" height="494" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The flamingos! They DO exist!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We drove, the GPS forgotten, towards a lighthouse in the distance. Other hikers seemed to be wandering around.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Then, like a rosy gust of wind, we saw a flock of flamingos off in the distance and one of us (maybe me) shrieked. We parked the car, and then even closer, we found our first flock of maybe two dozen flamingos just chilling in the water, walking along like nothing was going on. So coy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We watched them for a while, simply mesmerized that there were flamingos in France, a country that you never really associate with much wildlife, let alone a vibrant pink bird. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Having fulfilled our mission in the Camargue, we headed out, only to find a larger flock on the way back, with other pilgrims to this ornithological holy land taking photos and appreciating the bizarreness of it all.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">On our way out of the Camargue, we looked for the next elusive item for the day: lunch. We stopped at a place that had just stopped serving, only to turn around and be greeted by a herd of the Camargue cattle, jet black with one mighty bull keeping an eye on the bunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JfkhoXamtG4/VC11DiRrwII/AAAAAAAACwM/-jvyOaZqTpc/s1600/camargue.3.edited.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JfkhoXamtG4/VC11DiRrwII/AAAAAAAACwM/-jvyOaZqTpc/s1600/camargue.3.edited.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Herds of Camargue cattle just chilling.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The region is also known for its salt and rice – of which we have plenty in Paris – so we didn’t spend much time discovering the local specialties. But for a morning trip on our way to the next destination from Marseille, it was a pretty unique excursion that’s entirely worth a stopover if you’re in the region and are into nature and that sort of thing. My inner boy scout totally geeked out, even if the reserve is also home to some seriously aggressive mosquitoes. We didn't stay long enough to encounter any.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We were blessed by the holy trinity of Camargue wildlife – white horse, flamingo, and black bull. Next time we'll see if we can meet a cowboy or two...</div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/10/the-camargue-frances-natural-narnia.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-6784929954309625898Wed, 24 Sep 2014 09:19:00 +00002014-09-24T17:40:30.506+02:00MarseillesummertouristtravelvacationMarseille: On Soup, Soap, and Snorkeling<div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9igtkTm7frI/VCHtmXFi6jI/AAAAAAAACvM/zIWiQrU45Io/s1600/marseille.notre.dame.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9igtkTm7frI/VCHtmXFi6jI/AAAAAAAACvM/zIWiQrU45Io/s1600/marseille.notre.dame.2.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh hey Marseille...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">“Oh I hear it’s really dirty down there,” people tell me every time I discuss summer vacation. I guess it’s tough to shake some labels. But seriously, Marseille is far from the cesspool people think it is. Or at least that's the case since 2013 when it was the European Capital of Culture, forcing it to scrub up a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">My friend Lindsey, <a href="http://www.lostincheeseland.com/2013/07/a-mini-guide-to-marseille.html" target="_blank">who loves Marseille</a>, has written about it quite a few times, so I know I’m not exaggerating. The city, the third largest in France, is also the biggest port along the Mediterranean and the town that has now stolen my heart twice.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It was the starting point for a road trip from Provence to Paris, and it started with a taxi ride from the train station that could rival the zigzaginess of any Parisian driver. Safe and sound in the Panier, one of the oldest parts of town, we slipped easily into vacation mode. There's just something about the south, ya know?<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Well maybe you don’t. Let me tell you. When the sun shines all of the time and the temperature hovers around perfection all day and night long, it’s easy to see why so many people flock to Provence. But it’s more than a comfortable climate.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xvhXNUwYR70/VCHtmcqxPLI/AAAAAAAACvQ/QAMGTW9DXkU/s1600/marseille.fishermen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xvhXNUwYR70/VCHtmcqxPLI/AAAAAAAACvQ/QAMGTW9DXkU/s1600/marseille.fishermen.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning boat ride...</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Food<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In Marseille, no one was rushed. Our first meal called for convenience, and pizza was beckoning us. The waitress at Pizzeria Le Vieux Panier took the time to explain each pizza to us with her best Marseille accent (think French with a lot of twang). When people called me at Pink Flamingo Pizzeria in Paris, where I worked for about a year, I told them to go online and look at the menu and call back when they were ready to order. Who has time for that?&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Oh, well, I guess they do in Marseille.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">A few days later, while settling on a lowcost version of the famous bouillabaisse, the local fish soup, the owner of Chez Madie made time to come out and check on every client in whichever language they spoke. The soup was just fine, coming in waves. It starts with croutons and a fish bouillon full of a garlicky and saffron-flavored <i>rouille, </i>like a mayo. Then&nbsp;the the server comes out and debones the fish to add with potatoes once we finished the soup.</span><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><span lang="EN-US">It was rather tasty, even though conversation was cut short by excessive fish bones poking our mouths, but we’ll chalk that up to Marseille’s rougher side. We could have asked for a bit more tact on the fish-end, since the soup did go for 40 euros a person. It was still cheaper than 65 euros a person at the higher end Chez Michel, but we spent the difference on ice cream, so all was well.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Add a few glasses of Pastis, several bottles of rosé, some amazing gelato from Le Glacier du Roi, and cookies flavoured with <i>flur d’oranger </i>called “navettes” baked at Les Navettes des Accoules and you’ve got enough noshing to keep you happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z9y0FqqLh0/VCHth6P3wsI/AAAAAAAACu8/zQ7Oqf_UZAw/s1600/marseille.charite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7Z9y0FqqLh0/VCHth6P3wsI/AAAAAAAACu8/zQ7Oqf_UZAw/s1600/marseille.charite.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Almshous? Cultural center? Both?</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Sightseeing<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We played tourists, happily. Sure, we walked around quite a bit, visited the market, bought some fish to cook, some corn to grill, some rosé to drink. We went to the beach at the Plage des Catalans and soaked up a bit of sun with the other tourists. We even took the little tourist train from the Vieux Port all the way up to the church, Notre Dame de la Garde, which offers you the chance to see Marseille as God him/herself does.</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">We spent nearly a whole day around the Vieux Port, the old fortresses, and the Panier district just north of the port with it's bohemian vibe, colorful architecture, old and cutesy boutiques. My favorite continues to be the ever kitschy 72% Pétanque, which sells the city's staple souvenir: soap. I stocked up as if it weren't available in Paris. We took a look at La Vieille Charit</span>é, an almshouse finished in the 18th century that now acts as a cultural center. It's easy to get lost and stop for a drink, watching an entire afternoon pass.</div><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eeb_Yg3Cq_E/VCHt2pAxX9I/AAAAAAAACvs/ua4WpdW9VVA/s1600/marseille.bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eeb_Yg3Cq_E/VCHt2pAxX9I/AAAAAAAACvs/ua4WpdW9VVA/s1600/marseille.bike.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wandering the Panier...</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But this, my second time to Marseille, called for an adventure. I wanted to get away from the cattle call of the boats at the Vieux Port and find something special. Cue Groupon, of all places, where I found a snorkeling excursion in the famed calanques, limestone cliffs that jut over the Mediterranean.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Little did we know that the sea’s temperature would be a chilly 15 degrees Celsius that day. But there was lunch included on the boat of about twenty that left from a harbor in southern Marseille out to the calanques. What could go wrong?<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Zipped up in our wetsuits and ready to go, the boat whisked us out to the imposing cliffs where our guide gave a little talk about the formations before anchoring us and letting us jump in with our snorkels. Fish and jellyfish were a plenty, but after about 20 minutes, I had had enough. I sat on the boat, awaiting the others, feeling the not-always-gentle rocking back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Needless to say, I didn’t need lunch, but I did feed a school of fish with my previous day’s lunch. It was a benevolent act, really…(<i>note: no photos of the calanques, due to the sick</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5gRIvYmhabI/VCHtqtcpESI/AAAAAAAACvc/O-_aBgqZjqU/s1600/marseille.notre.dame.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5gRIvYmhabI/VCHtqtcpESI/AAAAAAAACvc/O-_aBgqZjqU/s1600/marseille.notre.dame.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from up high...</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Accommodation<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Since we were four, we opted for an AirBnB, and our host Julie met us upon our arrival and gave us some great tips for our stay in the Panier district. We wanted the option to cook but we also wanted to stay somewhere in or around the Panier, and AirBnB fulfilled our needs at a very attractive price.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">If going the budget route in Marseille, know that budget AirBnB’s might lack some of the charm that other big cities have. But for 80 euros a night, with a balcony, it was worth it, even if there was a 7AM wake-up call by a rooster every morning. Yes, a rooster. Really. In the middle of the city. Provincial!<o:p></o:p></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x0ZpSW5D-L4/VCHteDAsXBI/AAAAAAAACus/sduR2s4AmIo/s1600/marseille.cassis.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-x0ZpSW5D-L4/VCHteDAsXBI/AAAAAAAACus/sduR2s4AmIo/s1600/marseille.cassis.2.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cassis...</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Day Trips<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Marseille is located conveniently close to several other major towns worth visiting, like Avignon and Aix en Provence. You can even spend a day on the Frioul islands just off the coast and go hiking. We opted for Cassis, since I hadn’t been there yet, and spent a day wandering the tiny streets and eating Tropézien pastries on the beach. It’s a cute little town that does trips to the Calanques by boat, as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Be sure to organize travel carefully, wherever you go. We took the train, which is harder to mess up, but the towns are well serviced by buses to and from Marseille.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TIh6AfpxfcY/VCHtkCPJ8uI/AAAAAAAACvE/Cm6lS29SvF4/s1600/marseille.dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TIh6AfpxfcY/VCHtkCPJ8uI/AAAAAAAACvE/Cm6lS29SvF4/s1600/marseille.dogs.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even the dogs help you with directions...</td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Bottom Line<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">In a city whose main souvenir item is soap, it’s hard to imagine why Marseille has such a grubby reputation. With ferries to and from North Africa, the immigrant population might seem intimidating to some, and the crumbling bits of the Panier may not seem charming or rustic to certain travelers. But after six years in Paris, none of this was alarming or off-putting at all. The bad reputation worked for us though&nbsp;<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;,&quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: FR; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">–&nbsp;</span>the lack of English-speaking tourists made it feel like we had traveled much further than&nbsp;the 3 hours and few minutes on the train.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But if you’re looking for a slice of Provence that’s still cosmopolitan and bustling as much as southern France can bustle, Marseille is a sure bet. It’s still a big city, just like Paris, so safety is always an issue, but there is little that should deter an open-minded traveler looking to experience something real, vibrant, and decidedly un-Parisian.<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/09/marseille-on-soup-soap-and-snorkeling.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-971576735315314277Thu, 18 Sep 2014 14:11:00 +00002014-09-18T16:11:34.946+02:00cultural differencesmarathonMarathon du MédocracerunningtravelwineMarathon du Médoc 2014: A Masquerade<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7RocRYAU44A/VBrh_JDjFLI/AAAAAAAACuM/2R9bgVBoeCQ/s1600/22512626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7RocRYAU44A/VBrh_JDjFLI/AAAAAAAACuM/2R9bgVBoeCQ/s1600/22512626.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption">This was well before any notion of fatigue set in...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Third Time’s a Charm<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Two Americans, an Aussie, and a Singaporean walk into a marathon…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">It was just another Saturday in the Médoc region of France when 10,000 runners and wine lovers descended upon the sleepy town of Pauillac, north of Bordeaux. Dressed in their Carnival finest, we were ready to run the world’s longest marathon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">Fireworks burst overhead at 9:30AM as we set off on a 42 kilometer trek unlike any other in the world.&nbsp;</span>Musicians lined the streets as locals joined runners from around the world, cheered on by an equally international crowd. Water was plentiful, but played second fiddle at <i>this </i>marathon.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">I’ve <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/08/29/travel/medoc-marathon/" target="_blank">written about it before</a>, and I’ll say it again. It bears repeating. There's a reason I've come back for a third time. We drink wine – hearty red wine – at multiple chateaux along the route, racing towards the last few kilometers where oysters (with white wine), steak, and ice cream await the willing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">And we were all willing.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4yOcRd0u_t0/VBrh9xxR6LI/AAAAAAAACuE/IjqryjHMdE4/s1600/IMG_0564.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4yOcRd0u_t0/VBrh9xxR6LI/AAAAAAAACuE/IjqryjHMdE4/s1600/IMG_0564.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Run...</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-2MUYKy-GR-k%2FVBrhuehR2GI%2FAAAAAAAACtw%2Fc-m5V7-PFG0%2Fs1600%2FIMG_0551.JPG&amp;container=blogger&amp;gadget=a&amp;rewriteMime=image%2F*" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2MUYKy-GR-k/VBrhuehR2GI/AAAAAAAACtw/c-m5V7-PFG0/s1600/IMG_0551.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">30th birthday!</td></tr></tbody></table></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Just Like Bourbon Street</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Americans on our team, being the seniors, opted for a Mardi Gras theme. The marathon requires costumes, especially during this year’s 30<sup>th</sup>anniversary. The theme was “Carnival Around the World” and we brought a slice of the US to the table.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">With purple, gold, and green beads rattling and feathers strategically giving our sun-beaten faces some shade around the halfway mark, we trudged through each kilometer, stopping at the majority of wine stations. We chased the red with water, staying hydrated in the very persistent September sun. Forty two kilometers of vineyards, chateaux, wine, and nibbles…life is hard.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">With feather boas, sequins, Venetian masks, and bells, most runners understood the theme. But a selection of random of scantily clad men bearing their behinds under a hula skirt, at least two Santa Claus, and a recently married Japanese couple in bridal getup missed the mark slightly. But no one minded.</div><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">At the end, we nabbed our medals, some more water, and a parting gift – a bottle of wine and a set of Reidel glasses, which wasn’t a cheap compensation. Happy birthday, indeed, Marathon du Médoc!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hyxxAynunhM/VBrhblEfYoI/AAAAAAAACtk/gC0akZ25kzc/s1600/IMG_0526.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hyxxAynunhM/VBrhblEfYoI/AAAAAAAACtk/gC0akZ25kzc/s1600/IMG_0526.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The team.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US">Lessons Learned<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US"></span></i><br /><i><span lang="EN-US"></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">This year, now my third, I learned a few things. <b>First</b>, running in a costume is always a bad idea but you can’t run this marathon without it. Just go with it and enjoy the ridiculousness of being surrounded by thousands of people who are doing the same. More is better.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Second</b>, running marathons doesn’t really get easier, but you learn how to cope with the pain, which does seem to lessen over time. My first marathon I was hobbling and in bed by 7PM. This year, I didn’t really feel too bad at all (two years later!). And I stayed awake to consume several slices of pizza topped with duck, ham, and sausage. As one does.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Third</b>, all marathons need wine. No discussion needed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><b>Fourth</b>, when the marathon does have wine (<i>again</i>, they all should), you push the limit, in my case, rolling in just 14 minutes before the clock struck 6.5 hours. A little too fast for my taste.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Finally</b>, it may be time to find another marathon in September temporarily, to make sure I don’t get <i>too </i>use to the wine and running. Plus, I should give someone else the chance to experience the ridiculousness of the Marathon du Médoc.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Keep an eye on their <a href="http://www.marathondumedoc.com/" target="_blank">webpage </a>for the 2015 registration! I know I will, just in case...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5tMqspHNTJ8/VBrht6ZZcWI/AAAAAAAACts/fXN3fPn7jbw/s1600/IMG_0561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5tMqspHNTJ8/VBrht6ZZcWI/AAAAAAAACts/fXN3fPn7jbw/s1600/IMG_0561.JPG" height="478" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How we roll...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/09/marathon-du-medoc-2014-masquerade.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-4227823017905277882Tue, 09 Sep 2014 22:18:00 +00002014-09-10T00:18:32.121+02:00academiadoctoratejourneyParisSorbonnestudentBack to School in Paris: One More Time<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DUUUDPdKnZk/VA94uYKrjzI/AAAAAAAACsg/KGDxNe8thCU/s1600/back.to.school.2014.1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DUUUDPdKnZk/VA94uYKrjzI/AAAAAAAACsg/KGDxNe8thCU/s1600/back.to.school.2014.1.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All ready for my first day of class!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It was the last time I’d ever receive this type of letter. After grammar school, there was the excitement of high school. Then letters arrived about college. Then an acceptance letter to a master’s program arrived. Then came the notification that I had been adopted by the Sorbonne as a PhD candidate. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Yesterday I received my last set of “<i>certificate de scolarité</i>,” renewing my enrollment for the 2014-2015 year – my final year – at the University of the Sorbonne Nouvelle, Paris 3. This officially marked the end of my higher education in France, and probably in the world. There will be no more first days of school for me as a student after this October. My lunchbox would be retired, forever.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Well, at least that’s the most likely scenario. But this being France, who knows what hiccups I may encounter…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></div><a name='more'></a><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I might totally drop the ball on my thesis and have to take another year. I could go into the as-of-yet unexplained world of a post-doc (shudder). Or I could have to repeat my final year on some sort of administrative technicality, like forgetting to register for the class on Africans and Tarzan in 20<sup>th</sup>century film. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">No wait, I took that seminar already. Silly me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rgEwU301LNY/VA940hym6oI/AAAAAAAACsw/ox1T_fbh1BI/s1600/back.to.school.2014.3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rgEwU301LNY/VA940hym6oI/AAAAAAAACsw/ox1T_fbh1BI/s1600/back.to.school.2014.3.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe I should read...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It’s still a milestone. I have hurdled time and again the obstacles of French bureaucracy to register at the Sorbonne and secure a visa (since 2010, not too shabby). Now it’s all coming to a close. This time next year I’ll hopefully have a job, that thing my dad keeps asking me if I’ll ever get. And I might even be French, if all goes well. I’ll be <i>Docteur</i> Bryan with a PhD in information and communication science from the University of Paris. I’ll be able to heal all of your communications woes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Let's just not get <i>too </i>far ahead of ourselves. In the meantime, I have one year of lesson plans to update in order to attempt to engage the French students at the Sorbonne Nouvelle. I have to wrap up some research for my thesis. And then I suppose I should write the thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7x2q2FyLwcw/VA98GjJcbYI/AAAAAAAACtE/Jic8LofSP_A/s1600/back.to.school.2014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7x2q2FyLwcw/VA98GjJcbYI/AAAAAAAACtE/Jic8LofSP_A/s1600/back.to.school.2014.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A last bit of paperwork...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But before any of that, I’ve got to get ready for my last first day of school, so I packed and repacked my <i>trousse</i> (pencil case) like a good obsessive French student.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I think I’m ready now.</span></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/09/back-to-school-in-paris-one-more-time.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-2919870251020299277Thu, 28 Aug 2014 15:37:00 +00002014-08-29T22:22:10.667+02:00giveawayParisraceReebokrunningSpartan RaceBib Giveaway: Reebok Spartan Race France<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r3CXzKO1vOI/U_8gRjgHIaI/AAAAAAAACrk/3kDSNcJgG6U/s1600/reebok.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-r3CXzKO1vOI/U_8gRjgHIaI/AAAAAAAACrk/3kDSNcJgG6U/s1600/reebok.1.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Running in Paris – it’s a <i>thing</i> now, no news there. I get anxious when I hit the Canal on a Sunday, afraid of running into the hordes of other runners, while at the same time I’m ecstatic to see everyone sprinting along. It’s all about challenging yourself, keeping positive energy, and having fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">With so many races, an increasingly popular marathon that has switched to a lottery system, and new running groups all across the city, Paris is an easy place to run however you want. And one of the newer trends has been the obstacle course races, like The Mud Day, which premiered in 2013.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">New to the Parisian scene this year is a challenge put forth by Reebok, following the success of Nike’s “We Own the Night” and Adidas’ “Boost Battle Run.” The course, a team event, called “<b>Spartan Race</b>,” is inspired by the Greek soldiers and challenges participants with up to 26 obstacles during some 20+ kilometers. The first one in France happened last year in Marseille, and this September it’s coming to Paris for the first time.</span></div><a name='more'></a><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8tCkpVl2jl0/U_8gFncKpdI/AAAAAAAACrg/cLZ50lEsEIM/s1600/reebok.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8tCkpVl2jl0/U_8gFncKpdI/AAAAAAAACrg/cLZ50lEsEIM/s1600/reebok.3.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Now, it’s not just for the most heroic of athletes. The race has three categories, with the “Sprint” covering just 5 kilometers and 15 obstacles, and the “Super” pushing a half-marathon and 21 obstacles. It’s the Beast, with over 20 kilometers and 26 obstacles that seems like it will really put you to the test.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The obstacles seem anything but lighthearted. Climbing ropes, taking blows from gladiators, lifting things, crawling under things, sharp things, hot things, wet things, muddy things – it’s no walk in the park, but it seems like a riot.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The race in Paris, on September 13<sup>th</sup>, costs 99 euros at the moment – not cheap! Reebok invited me to attend, but I’ll be running the Marathon du Médoc down by Bordeaux, so I can’t participate in Paris’s first Spartan Race.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lg08hBYCBxI/U_8gFhsSXYI/AAAAAAAACrc/pTYcf0E-PN0/s1600/reebok.2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Lg08hBYCBxI/U_8gFhsSXYI/AAAAAAAACrc/pTYcf0E-PN0/s1600/reebok.2.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="background-color: white;"><b><i>But Reebok has given me a code for anyone who wants a <span style="font-size: large;">FREE </span>entry</i></b>.</span> I’ve never done a giveaway before, but this one seems entirely appropriate. The code is good for any of their France challenges, whether in Paris (Sept. 13) or Marseille (Oct. 11 and 12).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><b><i>To win a free race bib, leave a comment telling me your biggest challenge of running in Paris</i></b>(or elsewhere, if you’re not in Paris) and I’ll pick a winner next week. Be creative! Check back on Friday (Sept. 5th!) to see if you won and then contact me by email!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Check out <a href="http://spartanracemedia.com/fr/" target="_blank">their website</a> for more information on the Reebok Spartan Race and to sign up either solo or as part of a team. Also check out their <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SpartanRaceFrance" target="_blank">Facebook page here</a>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I hope you have an old race shirt you don’t mind getting dirty…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>Photos: Reebok Spartan Race France</i></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/08/bib-giveaway-reebok-spartan-race-france.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6507131689411387182.post-8550103917099684373Thu, 07 Aug 2014 11:58:00 +00002014-08-07T13:59:39.088+02:00cultural differencesParissummervacationA Paris Without Parisians<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zdFccyITqnU/U-NohA_gxcI/AAAAAAAACpE/KVZCjOXS9Cc/s1600/IMG_0842.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zdFccyITqnU/U-NohA_gxcI/AAAAAAAACpE/KVZCjOXS9Cc/s1600/IMG_0842.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just you and me buddy...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Riding my bicycle along the Canal on a Sunday afternoon, the sun shining its best and the temperature giving no one a reason to stay inside, I was taken aback. Hardly anyone was in the streets jogging, walking, playing, biking, picnicking. It was deserted as few beautiful Sundays have ever been deserted before.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But it's August. Silly me.&nbsp;</span>I’ve been summering in Paris since 2008. Finally I am starting to understand it.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">There are the obligatory activities that I partake in, be it the fireworks at the Eiffel Tower on July 14<sup>th</sup> or the Paris Plages along the Seine and Canal. Maybe I’ll play pétanque, maybe go out for a drink along the river, or jog for hours through the Bois de Vincennes with a little SPF on my face.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But only in August do I really start loving Paris because, well, the Parisians leave. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"></span><br /><a name='more'></a></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BoIjnC8a8gk/U-NpPsGgpiI/AAAAAAAACpU/cuPWMy44pZA/s1600/IMG_0367.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BoIjnC8a8gk/U-NpPsGgpiI/AAAAAAAACpU/cuPWMy44pZA/s1600/IMG_0367.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picnic along the Seine...requisite...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">While Notre Dame and St-Germain are overtaken by Americans, Italians, and Scandinavians looking to explore the City of Light, Parisians are sunning along the water somewhere south, somewhere far. And it’s awesome. I always knew this was the case, taking trips to Spain, Italy, and the south of France at the same time as the Parisians – but I never truly realized how incredible it is to have the city all to oneself.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">The Canal St-Martin has more space to sit and breathe. Vélibs are easier to find. Lines at the bakeries (if they are open) are shorter. Jogging in the streets is less hazardous. Everyone is a little bit more relaxed. It’s blissful.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fk5Kh1GWhSk/U-NpUT4VhKI/AAAAAAAACpc/u0ZkcxzCFlw/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fk5Kh1GWhSk/U-NpUT4VhKI/AAAAAAAACpc/u0ZkcxzCFlw/s1600/IMG_0299.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 14th...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m not saying that Parisians make the rest of the year entirely miserable. They run the cheese shops, butchers, coffee shops, and chocolatiers that are currently closed that I have learned to live without, but that I very much appreciate. And they sit in the classrooms that I teach – so I kind of need them. No complaints on my part when they return in September. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">But for a few weeks each summer, I now soak it up willingly. The airy, breezy feeling of the city – be it in the rain or sweltering heat – is something that only comes in August when locals aren’t milling about. It almost makes me not want to go away for vacation…<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1pT91J-iwpM/U-NpJxNL04I/AAAAAAAACpM/Kk0Kn7L0Ejs/s1600/IMG_0949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1pT91J-iwpM/U-NpJxNL04I/AAAAAAAACpM/Kk0Kn7L0Ejs/s1600/IMG_0949.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hangers-on...</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i>Almost.</i></div>http://www.bryanpirolli.com/2014/08/a-paris-without-parisians.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Bryan Pirolli)1